The White Pawn
by Mrs J's Soup
Summary: When eighteen-year-old Draco Malfoy finds himself back at Hogwarts on the eve of Voldemort's infamous return, he is confronted with the most difficult decision he's ever had to make: Fight for a cause he no longer believes in, or do the unthinkable and ally himself with Potter's lot... [Warning: Slowest burn EVER]
1. Prologue

_Hello! Something new from me... time travel again... seems I can't leave that trope alone._

 _This story idea has caused me considerable trouble because I could not decide on the pairing. So instead of choosing I'm cheating- I'm posting the Draco/Hermione version here, and the Harry/Draco version at my other account. It's probably against FFnet rules... (face... bothered?) XD_

 _Beta'd by_ _ **I am the Color of Boom**_ _xx_

* * *

 ** _Prologue_**

 _Hogsmeade- June 1996_

The Hogshead had never been what one would call a welcoming environment. The air was heavy with the musky odour of stale ale, unwashed wizard, and unmistakeably, goats. Every surface seemed to be coated in a film of grease that the dusty air clung to, thick, unpleasant, and probably decades old.

But despite the health risks, this was where Draco Malfoy found himself - seated at a sticky table, across from Albus Dumbledore, in the wee hours of the morning. A situation, not to mention drinking companion, he could have never predicted twenty-four hours ago. For a start, from Draco's point of view, Dumbledore had been dead for almost two years. But with the day that Draco had experienced so far, seeing Dumbledore alive and well was possibly one of the least concerning things he had to deal with.

"You say a time-traveling chess piece brought you here?" Dumbledore repeated Draco's last statement, his tone serene but the light blue eyes behind his half-moon glasses held scepticism and something colder that was more difficult to describe. Dumbledore looked different from Draco's memory of him, he was swathed in a black traveling cloak, the hood up to hide his trademark silver hair. This was a Dumbledore on the run from the Ministry, risking quite a lot to return to Hogsmeade just to talk to Draco. If Umbridge found out he was here, if Draco was caught with him… the consequences would be dire indeed.

Draco looked away from the piercing gaze, pushing away thoughts of the Dark Lord's retaliation, of the harm that would come to his mother if he, Draco, was suspected of turning traitor. Dumbledore's protection was his only choice right now. He pulled a small, life-like marble pawn from his breast pocket, and placed it on the table between them. The miniature uniformed soldier bowed politely to Dumbledore, who scrutinised it closely, though he did not touch it.

"It's the only theory I can come up with," Draco said tiredly, "I was on my way home and I found it in my pocket, then I slipped and hit my head, and now I'm back here, and so is it, and as far as I can tell I look like I'm fifteen again, well, nobody seemed to think I was out of place and my uniform still fits me." He plucked at his white school shirt in illustration, making his silver and green tie swing briefly before falling back into place.

Dumbledore was still regarding the little pawn with suspicion as he asked, "And how old do you claim to be now, Mr Malfoy?" He didn't sound the least bit concerned that Draco had found himself in the life and body of his younger self.

"Eighteen," Draco replied shortly, agitated that the old wizard was so indifferent to his plight.

"And has the world changed a great deal since you were fifteen?" Dumbledore questioned, his tone still completely calm, as if they were discussing the weather, not the apparent corruption of the fabric of time.

There was a part of Draco that wanted to laugh at the absurdity of such a question. But the last two years had made the wizarding world almost unrecognisable, and his memories sucked even the most cynical humour from him. "Yes," he answered seriously, thinking about the crumbling Hogwarts Castle and the frantic, furious mind-set that had ripped through the magical community and led to Draco's own imprisonment. "Our world was torn apart, but it's mending now."

"Voldemort is defeated?" Dumbledore clarified, still focused on the pawn, and not looking at Draco.

"Yes, and many others, including yourself," Draco added, his annoyance making his final statement sound almost threatening.

Dumbledore did not seem bothered by this. "Great success often requires great sacrifice Mr Malfoy, and I am nothing if not great."

Draco had no idea how to reply to such a pronouncement, so he sat in silence, waiting for Dumbledore to continue. Their surroundings did little to comfort Draco; the last time he had been in this pub was the night of the final battle, when he had snuck back into the school to hunt out Potter with the goal of delivering him to the Dark Lord. He kept expecting the grouchy barman to start sending hexes at him, cursing him for trying to kill his brother. But of course, at this point in time, Draco was nothing more than a student up at the castle. Rather than an attempted murderer.

Eventually Dumbledore spoke again. "And tell me, who was it that dealt the final blow? Who is the hero that vanquished Lord Voldemort?"

"Potter," Draco said, unable to say the name without a slight grudging inflection, it was too much of a habit to break. "In the hall at school, duelled him in front of hundreds of witnesses."

This statement affected Dumbledore far more than the warning of his own death. He met Draco's eyes again. A tremulous kind of sadness filled the old wizard's face, or perhaps it was pride, Draco found it hard to tell the difference.

Then Dumbledore's expression became impassive once more, his silver eyebrows lifting in question as he asked, "Your father would be furious if he knew you were here, would he not?"

"Probably," Draco said, "but as I've already said, if I'm stuck here then I intend to be on the winning side of this war."

"I would hazard a guess that you are indeed stuck here, but then I have never seen magic that allows an inanimate object—other than a time-turner—to bring wizards back in time, so perhaps I am wrong. Where did you get it?"

Draco sighed, resisting the urge to drop his head to his hands; there was a resounding ache starting at his temples, and he really just wanted to get some sleep. He supposed he should tell Dumbledore the full story, just in case he was able to fix the situation somehow. But then... did Draco even want to go back? The unknown possibilities that lay ahead were surely better than the known, grim existence he'd faced until yesterday.


	2. Chapter One: Mr Timworth

_Chapter One:_ _ **Mr Timworth**_

* * *

 ** _London. February, 1999._**

"'Ere!" Mundungus Fletcher's usual monosyllabic greeting, which served as both reprimand and impatient tut, met Draco's ears as he sidled through the back door. "Ya been ages, boy."

"The chippie was busy," Draco replied, sparing a glance for the grubby podge of a man. There were several others sitting at the table, they were a bit dirty, mostly long haired, and all the sort you wouldn't make eye-contact with in a dark alley… or even a brightly lit one.

Draco deposited his newspaper wrapped bundle on the kitchen table amongst this rabble, and mourned the loss of its comforting heat as he did so. Working for Fletcher had many downsides, but collecting warm dinner on a cold February evening was not one of them.

Draco's excuse for the delay went unnoticed. The other men in the room were making a racket as they descended on the food. The newspaper rustled noisily, and the ketchup bottle made obscene noises as it splattered its contents onto the chips. Fletcher's crew were mangy and uncouth at the best of times, let alone when there was free food to snarl at each other over.

Despite his growling stomach Draco hung back, fearing loss of a finger or two if he attempted to secure any dinner for himself just yet. He'd only been working for Fletcher for two months, so he was still the new guy. And while he was tall, he was also rather slight and would be quite easily snapped in two by any of the hulking monsters that sat around the table before him.

Standing in a grotty east-end flat surrounded by intimidating criminals might not seem like a good life, but after the three months he'd spent in Azkaban it was much better than he'd been expecting. The Dark Lord hadn't even been dead for a year yet, and Draco felt like his own life was dragging by so slowly. Eleven weeks on the run with his mother, ninety-four very long days in prison after they were caught, and now seventeen hundred hours had passed since his release and most of those had been spent in the company of these rough and disreputable arseholes.

Being employed by Mundungus Fletcher had been a rare stroke of good luck for Draco. The baggy-eyed criminal had refined his trade during The Dark Year (August '97 to May '98) and the confusion that followed. He procured sold illegal items of a valuable nature, anything from artefacts to drugs. Draco had been offered a job, because the type of people who had enough gold to be worth dealing with, often didn't fancy a conversation with Mundungus and his ilk. Draco's high standard of personal hygiene and his ability to pronounce all consonants available in the English language did wonders for customer satisfaction.

Draco was currently focused on living day to day; he had food and a warmish bed, that was more than he'd hoped for on release from prison. Looming six months in the future was his mother's release date, he had no idea what he was going to do when she left Azkaban. He couldn't provide for her too, not yet anyway. His father had received the Dementors' kiss during the fevered hunt for the Dark Lord's followers that had consumed the wizarding world in the summer of '98. It had been a frightening time, bloodlust and revenge split the community. Draco and his mother had hidden, Narcissa had been trying to arrange an escape to New York where she had a distant cousin. A sympathetic friend had let them hide in her servant's quarters while the hunt went on, but eventually the Aurors had come calling.

Luckily for both Draco and Narcissa the craving for retribution had dulled in the public by the time they went to trial in September, and even luckier for Draco he'd had the chance to prove with a pensive memory that he'd taken the Dark Mark on his arm when he'd barely turned sixteen. His sentence had reflected that for all his evil intentions, he'd committed no crimes against the light side since becoming a legal adult. He was grateful that the Carrows' reign at Hogwarts meant that students on both sides of the war had been forced to use unforgivables- the Wizengamot could hardly send all of the overage students to prison for their forced actions that year.

"Boy." Fletcher's voice interrupted Draco's distraction, there was no question who he was addressing. Dung might be the brains of the operation, but he'd find himself flat on his arse if he spoke to any of the other hardened bastards in the room this way. "The package arrived for Timworth this afternoon, you'll be taking it out to him first thing in the morning."

Draco nodded, they'd been waiting for Mr Timworth's delivery for nearly a week now. The food frenzy had died down at the table and a few chips and a small piece of fish remained. Draco scooted these to the edge of the paper as he asked, "Any special instructions for the drop off?"

"Nah, he requested you special, so make the most of it and squeeze a few extra bob out of him, ya' know, standard stuff."

"Will do," Draco promised. It was not unusual for the wealthier of their customers to ask for Draco over the more threatening other delivery men. Feeling pleased that he had something to offer, and therefore slight job security, Draco finally got started on his cold dinner.

* * *

Mr Timworth's property didn't look magical at all, the only tell was that Draco's portkey had not been able to take him directly to the doorstep, but instead he found himself at the end of a poplar-lined driveway. One of the conditions of his freedom was his wand had been throttled, meaning no apparition, or powerful magic. So prearranged portkeys took him wherever he needed to go for his work.

The house was only just visible, an imposing red-brick manor, peeking through the trees in the distance. The pale limestone drive looked bright and clean with the fresh green lawn and the warm clay of the house frontage bordering it.

Draco walked the length of the driveway, his brown paper wrapped package tucked under his left arm and his wool coat buttoned tight, his collar turned up against the cool February morning. By the time he reached the front door the tip of his nose had gone numb, and he was wishing he owned a woolly hat. Maybe he'd buy one on payday.

He lifted the brass knocker on the front door and rapped it twice, then he waited, glad as always that he only ever had to meet with the more genteel of Mundungus's customers. Some of the stories the other crew members told made Draco acutely aware of his good fortune, relative though it might be.

The door was answered by an elderly woman in a white starched apron and bonnet, something that surprised Draco; he'd been expecting house-elf servants with a property like this one, not human ones.

"Good morning," Draco said, "I'm here to see Mr Timworth, I believe he is expecting me."

The woman looked him over, her eyes falling on the package under Draco's arm. "Oh, you'll be bringing him those hocus pocus potions of his will you? Waste of money if you ask me."

"I think you'll find I didn't," Draco said primly, lifting his chin a fraction and meeting her disapproval with the coldest glare he could muster, because while the Malfoy pride within him may have been cowed by recent events, it wasn't gone completely. "Now, Mr Timworth if you please," he repeated firmly.

The housekeeper sniffed, clearly affronted, but she turned and led Draco into the house nonetheless, throwing a curt, "This way," over her shoulder at him as she went.

The interior of the house was more modern than Draco had been expecting, the outer impression being Georgian, or near it. Draco had assumed the inside would be full of antique furniture and tapestries, but it was not. Instead, it was light and sparse, reminding him of any one of the muggle museums dotted around London. They walked down a short passage, and the soles of the housekeeper's sensible shoes squeaked on the tile floor in the silence.

She opened the door at the end of the passage and said stiffly, "Mr Timworth, you have a visitor." Then she stomped back down the hallway, leaving Draco to enter the room alone.

The minimal decor and quiet of the passage and entrance did not extend to this room. It was small and crowded with tables of all sizes, and every available surface was occupied by board games. _How strange,_ thought Draco.

There were Chinese checkers and draughts, he could see at least five little piles of gobstones dotted about, and there were three long wooden cribbage boards in differing sizes on a low coffee table just inside the door. And while most of the games were muggle, they were clearly all magically altered; the coloured pegs in the crib boards were all taking turns to hop along the track, seemingly at the instruction of a self-shuffling deck of cards that sat next to them.

The clinking, tapping rustle of all these independently operating games was loud, and it took Draco a moment to spot the elderly Mr Timworth among the chaos. He wore a potioneer's smock over his dressing gown and was bald, except for a horseshoe of fluffy white hair surrounding his head, which didn't quite disguise his very prominent ears.

As Draco moved closer, he saw the man was hunched over a beautiful chessboard, definitely a wizarding set, because the pieces were more lifelike than Draco had ever seen. Mr Timworth glanced up briefly, and Draco caught a glimpse of keen eyes in a weathered face before the old man looked down again, and all Draco could see was the top of his balding, shiny head.

"You've come from Fletcher I presume?" Timworth asked, speaking barely loud enough to be heard over the continuing racket. "I hope Mildred wasn't too rude to you, squibs all seem to be so anti-magic," he added this pensively, as he arranged his line of white pawns just so. They were under such scrutiny that their pale hair fluttered each time Mr Timworth exhaled.

"I can't say I know enough squibs to have noticed a pattern," Draco replied, doing his best to sound cordial, Mr Timworth was a very good customer according to Dung. "She did suggest you're wasting your gold on these." He indicated the package he held tightly in his left hand. Draco was surprised to find Timworth so forthcoming. Dung's customers tended to be rather cagey about their dealings with him. "We managed to procure the potions you wanted, it was difficult, the Ministry crack-down on imports means -"

"Means the price has gone up?" Timworth finished for him, his tone light and his eyes still trained on his little chess soldiers. "What a coincidence, perhaps Mildred is onto something."

"This business is a tricky one," Draco hedged, once again surprised by Timworth's attitude.

"I don't doubt that," Mr Timworth agreed, finally looking at Draco again. "May I see them?"

"Payment first," Draco said at once, the old man's easy approach was making him paranoid. There was no way Draco could risk returning to Mundungus with anything less than a perfect report.

But Timworth was not fazed. "Fair enough," he said with a little nod, "wait here." He rose from his chair and left the room, leaving Draco to admire the chessboard as he waited for him to return.

The black pieces were nearest Draco, the corner rooks built from onyx, the knights were seated on charcoal steeds, their armour glinting in the light of the room. The bishops were dark, even menacing in their tall black hats and long dark robes, and the King and Queen were haughty, and as the Queen turned her austere gaze on Draco he was reminded unpleasantly of his late Aunt Bella. The pawns were all the same; soldiers with dark hair and pale faces, the brass buttons on their coats the only spots of colour on their uniforms.

Then suddenly, a large bag of coins dropped onto the table next to the chess set, making Draco jump slightly.

Mr Timworth had returned. "You'll have to excuse my enthusiasm, but I've had something of a breakthrough in my research, these potions have arrived at just the right time." Draco peered into the bag, there was much, much more than the agreed price in there.

"Er," Draco said, "Fletcher's price -"

"Keep the change boy," Timworth said, waving a hand dismissively, "I don't care, now let me see what you've brought."

Draco was rather numb as he held out the package to Timworth - had he just been tipped fifty galleons?

"Perfect," Timworth said, as he ripped off the brown paper, "Perfect. Could you give me just one moment? Mr Malfoy, isn't it?"

"Er, yes," Draco said, wondering why his identity should need to be confirmed when Timworth had apparently requested him.

"Perfect," Mr Timworth said again. The old man then snatched the end-most pawn from the white line-up and departed the room at a speed that belied his age and apparent fragility.

The man was bonkers Draco decided. Aside from speaking in half-finished sentences, he'd also said _'perfect'_ after learning Draco's name. These days no one thought being a Malfoy was perfect.

Mr Timworth returned shortly, looking very pleased about something. He dropped the pawn back onto its previously occupied square and said, "Why don't you sit, Mr Malfoy, I'm sure you'd like a match, I'd guess Fletcher and his cronies wouldn't offer much in the way of intellectual challenge."

This was true, Draco had to admit. "I've not played in years," he said. He was tempted to stay and play, but he really wanted to escape before Timworth realised how much gold he'd given away.

"All the more reason to brush up your skill then."

"Where did you take that pawn?" Draco asked cautiously as he sat down at the table, deciding to play despite his misgivings. He'd be foolish to pass up an opportunity to play with such a set.

"It's just part of my research," Timworth said dismissively, "life is like chess don't you think?"

Draco looked at the battle-ready line-up and said, "Well, mine has been full of war so far, so I guess so."

"Exactly"—Mr Timworth nodded—"and like in chess and in war, we must make the move that is possible, not the one we wished we could make."

"That's a very philosophical approach to chess," Draco said dubiously.

"But not to war?"

"To either," Draco clarified.

Mr Timworth focused on the pieces in front of him then, and directed one of the white pawns out onto no-man's land.

Draco turned his concentration to the game, wishy-washy ideas about choices and such were really not relevant in his current lifestyle.

Mr Timworth kept up his vaguely worded comments about the parallels between life and chess as they played. He seemed oddly attached to his pieces, deliberating painfully before he sacrificed any of them, and then becoming mournful at the inevitable loss. In one particularly fraught moment as Draco's remaining black knight battered a cowering marble pawn, Timworth said almost tearfully, "Poor little sod, I bet he wishes he hadn't been sent there."

Draco wanted to roll his eyes- the thing was stone, it didn't _wish_ anything. But in an effort to keep Mr Timworth and his tip happy, Draco indulged him, "Yes, if he had free will I'm sure he would have picked a different square."

"Would he indeed?" Mr Timworth murmured, looking at Draco once more. "Hindsight would be a magnificent weapon don't you think?"

Draco's jaw was starting to ache with the force he was clenching his teeth together. He nodded in reply but stayed silent. He felt like Mr Timworth was hinting, picking at something Draco should acknowledge, like this was some sort of loopy therapy session where Draco was supposed to start sobbing and identify with the pawn and his poor unjust life.

Or maybe Draco really did identify with the pawn, and was finding meaning in Mr Timworth's words that wasn't there. Or maybe Mr Timworth wasn't the only crazy one. Perhaps Draco needed a kitschy hobby like collecting board games too… perhaps Dung would let him set up a model train track in his corner of the bedroom back at the flat.

* * *

A little over an hour later Mr Timworth bowed his head as Draco said triumphantly, "Check mate!" All his thoughts about chess and life made his victory seem rather important.

"An excellent match, Mr Malfoy," Timworth commended him, "excellent indeed."

"Thank you," Draco said as he got to his feet. He was waiting for another veiled innuendo about success in the game of life, but none came. Whatever Timworth had been on about had clearly passed. Feeling pleased and much more like his old self, Draco re-buttoned his coat in preparation to leave.

"I must be going now though, I'm on the clock," he said politely. It was already closing in on lunchtime, the portkey for his next delivery would be activating itself very shortly.

"It was very nice to meet you," Mr Timworth said earnestly, standing too and clasping Draco's hand firmly. "I would request that you do all my deliveries from now on, but I expect you'll be busy with one thing or another." Then he patted Draco on the shoulder in an oddly friendly manner, standing a bit too close for Draco's liking.

Draco moved away hastily, wondering if the old man was going to ask for some sort of compensation for the massive tip that still sat on the table. Not willing to wait and find out Draco snatched the bag up and headed towards the door. "Good day to you," he said in farewell.

"Good luck with your future, Mr Malfoy," Timworth called after him, "your strategic chess skills are more valuable than you know."

Draco just nodded, thinking that his impression of Timworth being a nutter was quite spot on.

* * *

 _To be continued next week..._

* * *

 _This was beta'd by The Color of Boom, (wonderfully as always) but I tinkered with it after she was done, so any remaining mistakes are my own._

 _Thanks for reading,_

 _Mrs J xx_


	3. Chapter Two: OWL's

_**O.W.L.'s**_

* * *

The rest of Draco's day was routine, a day like all the others he'd had working for Fletcher so far: portkey back to the flat, collect the next package and the portkey for drop off, then head off to whichever corner of the country his delivery required. However, on his third return to Dung's for the day he lingered for a few minutes before setting off, hoping to get Mundungus to change his return portkey for him. Draco was in need of several things, a winter hat and new boots being top of the list. His current and only pair of shoes had soles worn nearly smooth and were a death trap on the sleaty February pavements. Thanks to Timworth, today he finally had the money to replace them.

Draco's exorbitant tip was still stashed secretly in the inside pocket of his coat- a pocket Dung himself had fixed with an undetectable extension charm so Draco could carry bulky items and payments without gaining the wrong kind of attention, and he was grateful for it now. He wanted neither Mundungus, nor his crew, to know that he'd come into a significant amount of gold.

"Dung?" Draco said reluctantly, hovering at the kitchen door after he'd been given his last package for the day. He really hated that his half-arsed wand meant he had to ask for help to go shoe shopping.

"Hmm?" Mundungus hummed uninterestedly in reply as he scratched at his stubbly cheek. There was a large, leather-bound book open on the table before him and was muttering under his breath as he added numbers in the columns. Draco didn't speak, waiting until his boss had finished, but then Mundungus grunted irritably, "Kneazle got ya tongue boy?" Mundungus looked up from his ledger, impatience all over his pouchy face. "Spit it out, I ain't got all bloody day."

Draco straightened, his upbringing always caused him to bristle when spoken down to, even when he probably shouldn't. "I need you to alter my portkey," he said, more demandingly than he'd meant too, "I want to go to Diagon after Mrs Fenton's."

Dung was clearly taken aback at Draco's tone, but then his bloodshot eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Wha'cha' got on in Diagon?"—he half rose from his seat, obviously distrustful and actually rather threatening—"Who ya meetin'?"

"No one," Draco promised hastily. "I've got a bit left from last pay that's all, and it's freezing, I'm just going to buy a hat."

"Ay," Dung muttered, deflating as he sank back into his seat at the table, much to Draco's relief. He continued to gripe under his breath as he picked up his stub of a pencil and went back to his numbers. "Should put your board up, right? If ya got gold left over, must be payin' ya too much."

Draco felt a little twang of panic; tip or not, he still needed every knut he could get his hands on. He was unsure if Dung's reaction meant a no on the portkey alteration request and was about to ask when Mundungus held out his stubby, fingerless-glove covered left hand.

"Gis it 'ere then," he grumbled impatiently, waiting for Draco to hand over the playing card that was his final portkey of the day.

The grubby, ginger-haired man took out his wand, and Draco watched enviously as the card glowed blue when his boss murmured, " _Portus_ ," and tapped it with his wand.

"You can walk back mind," Dung said gruffly, as he shoved the re-magicked card back across the tabletop, dismissing him with a shooing gesture as he muttered to his ledger, "Sodding uppity little prick." Draco was sure Mundungus meant him, and not the book.

* * *

After Mrs Fenton's, Draco's six of spades took him to Diagon Alley as planned. Mercifully, the Leaky Cauldron had been quite empty as he'd hurried through, determined to get out into the courtyard as quickly as he could. Shopping in Diagon was not ideal, and was something he tried to avoid as much as possible. There was nothing quite like being heckled by pram-pushing parents to ruin a bloke's day.

Every time he had ventured into the magical shopping district since he had got out of Azkaban he'd had to deal with taunts at the least, and more often than not angry shoppers, who were enraged that an ex-Death Eater would have the gall to show his face in _their_ street, taking it upon themselves to enforce justice. Justice in the form of hexing, taunting, and once or twice, actual physical violence. But today he made it to _Twilfitt and Tattings_ without incident, there weren't too many shoppers braving the winter air thankfully.

The wizarding outfitters was run by the Sharfiq family, and they were old acquaintances of Draco's mother, so he was relatively safe in there. But even then, he could sense the uncomfortableness of the girl who served him. She didn't meet his eye, and basically threw his purchase—a plain, navy blue knit cap, the cheapest winter hat they had for sale—in a bag for him.

After this cool exchange Draco left the clothes shop, intent on buying his shoes and getting home without attracting attention. He decided to take the longer but quieter route, past Gringotts and down the lane that led to both the shoe shop (the less popular, and therefore less likely to turn up their nose at his business, _Clodhoppers est. 1871_ ) and the east-end exit back into the muggle world.

He walked briskly, pulling his new hat from the bag and tugging it on over his easily recognisable Malfoy hair as he went. He paused to toss the _Twilfitt and Tattings_ bag in a bin outside a newsagents, and his ever-scanning eyes, on the alert for people likely to give him trouble, were distracted by the overblown front page of _Witch Weekly_ in the window of the shop.

The bright splash of a breaking scandal was scrawled across the top of the picture. " _HONEYMOON OVER FOR SAVIOUR'S SIDEKICKS!"_ it proclaimed. Beneath this was a repeating photograph of two people Draco had no trouble recognising, the wild curly hair of Hermione Granger was whipping a furious looking Ron Weasley across the face as she departed his company in a clear temper.

Draco had stopped dead in the street, taking a moment to enjoy the irritated look on Weasley's face as those bushy locks slapped across his cheek. Draco had actually seen a few articles about Granger lately, her career after the war was something Draco couldn't help but be impressed by.

Rather than put her feet up after helping Potter to destroy the Dark Lord she had apparently turned up at the Ministry, before Voldemort's body was even cold, and demanded they sort their shit out.

Draco could admit, if only to himself, that Granger's knowledge of wizarding government and all its archaic traditions was enviable, especially for a muggleborn. He'd grown up surrounded by the procedures and ridiculous nonsense – it was standard for heirs of Old Families to take a Ministry position while they waited for their fathers to die, and their real job to begin – and yet he would not want to go toe to toe with Granger on the finer points of magical legislation, she would win hands down.

Just last week he'd seen in the Prophet that she'd been made a junior member of the Wizengamot, at not even twenty years old. It was remarkable. But the jealous voice inside him suggested that this appointment only came to her because of her friendship with Potter, and her highly publicised actions during the Dark Year at Potter's side. But even this, his envious inner voice conceded grudgingly, was more impressive than the normal reason junior members were chosen: because of who their parents were.

He watched Granger's dramatic exit of the magazine cover one more time, and wondered what Weasley had said to provoke her, probably asked her to take a day off work or something. Granger's ladder climbing would definitely come at a high personal price, no weekends off for the woman trying to fix a system that was fundamentally broken.

"Oi! Malfoy!" A jeering call interrupted Draco's distraction, and he cursed himself for lingering too long in one spot. A few other voices joined the first. " _Tosser! Traitor!"_

Immediately his heart kicked up in trepidation, but he didn't turn to see who'd decided to pick on him today, he just walked as quickly as he could without running. Normally if he didn't run such wankers wouldn't follow him, like he wasn't good sport if they didn't get the thrill of the chase.

 _Merlin I hate this,_ Draco thought dejectedly, as he hurried along, eyes flicking left and right for possible escape routes. He hadn't even got his shoes yet. The great marble steps of Gringotts tempted him, but he didn't fancy being on the end of vehement goblin-brand curses today, and they'd probably just hold him hostage for his hecklers at any rate. He passed a bookshop, but he didn't dare enter there either. While the street hooligans probably wouldn't follow, the shop workers would likely chase him straight back out into the cobbled road, and that would give the group following him time to catch up.

Because they _were_ following it turned out, still calling insults after him as he walked, chin up, trying to pretend they weren't there.

Draco resented this, loathed that his life had become such a scraping, distrusting, fear-filled existence. That avoiding self-righteous dickheads was something he did regularly enough to be _used_ to, to be relatively practiced at.

Draco chanced a look behind him then; four men in muggle style winter coats weren't far behind, maybe a hundred metres. They didn't have their wands out, but they all saw him look. The biggest one, no doubt the leader, leered loudly, "Come on scum, we just want to have a chat."

Reflected in a shop window as he passed Draco saw two women, laden with shopping bags and several small children in tow, look around, scandalised at the threatening call. Then, they chivvied their little ones out of the way of the approaching group of men. But that was until one of the ladies realised who the men had been shouting at, and their offended expressions morphed to approval.

Draco scowled back at them as he checked on the distance between himself and the men again. It was so unfair, this day had started so well, and now he was probably going to get his head bashed in, because for some reason muggleborns still tended to resort to fists when they wanted to teach someone a lesson, the savages.

Absently, as he tried to come to terms with his fate, he thought about old Mr Timworth, and what he'd said about making the move that is possible, not the one you wished you could make. Possibilities were pretty thin on the ground right then, so foolishly, Draco dwelt on the idea of wishing he could make a different move, or that he'd made a different one in the past.

Mostly, he wished his father had not bungled everything the night the Dark Lord's return had become public. That was the moment Draco's future had been cemented. He'd had to fill his incarcerated father's place, and that meant taking the mark and being assigned the most impossible of tasks. If only Potter hadn't gone to the Ministry that night, then the Death Eaters would have waited undetected, the Dark Lord would never have had to reveal himself, the Malfoy's could have plead bewitchment if the Dark Lord had lost the war.

There was another shout behind him, and Draco chanced a third look back as he turned the corner. The men were closer still, and they were off the main road now, only an alley between Draco and the muggle world, but that alley was dark and narrow due to the built-up, overhanging first floors of the buildings that lined it, and no one would see if the pursuers wanted to use magic.

Realising he should at least try to defend himself, Draco reached in his coat pocket for his wand, useless though it was. He found his pocket fuller than he was expecting however, something small and cold was nestled in there along with his wand.

He pulled both items out, the fingers of his right hand closed around the familiar wooden handle of his wand on reflex, and he looked down at what turned out to be one of the fair-haired pawns from Mr Timworth's chess set. He watched, puzzling as the piece stretched its arms up as though pleased to be free of the dark confined space. Draco was stunned, how on _earth_ did that get in there?

His moment of distraction cost him; the gang of vigilantes had decided to make their move. Their nearing footsteps echoed off the brickwork in the alley, and Draco shoved the little pawn back in his pocket and began to sprint as he pointed his wand skyward.

" _Lumos Maxima,"_ he said determinedly, willing his castrated wand to perform the powerful spell. It worked. Bright, blinding light flared from his wand, bathing the alley and surprising the men following him. Clearly the Ministry didn't deem illumination charms dangerous. Draco felt relief, the group's loud footsteps paused, and he put his head down and ran. Then, finally spotting a hiding place up ahead, he extinguished his wand, and in the newly fallen darkness he slid in behind a dirty rubbish skip.

The cobblestones were slippery in the narrow space, and the sole of Draco's boot lost traction and skidded out from underneath him. He overbalanced, and the next thing he knew was a resounding crack to the back of his head as it hit either brick wall or pavement, he didn't have time to figure out which before the world went black.

* * *

Draco's heart was still pounding rapidly when he came to, the previous moments racing through his head: Running, the light from his wand, the weird little pawn in his pocket, slipping on the ice, the pain in his head. It was this pain that had prevented him from opening his eyes just yet, he was sure the world would be spinning, but it was quiet at least. The gang of dickheads must have given up when he fell, or maybe someone had come along and they hadn't wanted to get caught wailing on an unconscious bloke.

A soft scratching sound registered as he listened to the silence, it put him in mind of small creatures. Suddenly remembering where he'd fallen—behind grimy rubbish skip—he was immediately alarmed that he was about to find himself accosted by rodents. Draco opened his eyes and then stifled a gasp of shock at the vision he was presented with.

He was not, as he'd assumed, still slumped on the floor of the alley, behind the skip, but instead seated at a desk with warm sun hitting his back, his face resting on the desktop and his cheek stuck to a piece of parchment. He blinked, sitting up and pulling the parchment free as he looked around the room. He must have hit his head harder than he thought, because this surely could not be real.

He was sitting in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, a fully restored Great Hall, not like the ruin he'd run from the previous spring.

And that was not even the strangest part.

The Great Hall was set up for exams, with rows of single tables in every direction. There was a half-loaded quill on the table before him, and the parchment he'd pulled from his cheek was covered in his own handwriting. Draco stared at it; this was certainly a perplexing dream, or hallucination, or whatever. The page was headed in official calligraphy:

 _ **Ordinary Wizarding Level**_

 _ **History of Magic**_

Draco looked around again, his heartbeat still pounding loudly against his eardrums, his mouth dry with a sort of dread he didn't quite understand.

The students all looked the way he remembered they had, the day he really had sat his History of Magic exam. Was this some cruel trick of his subconscious, to show him the very day his family had been destroyed? As this thought occurred he half-expected a ghostly Professor Snape to appear and come wafting down the row of students, then lead Draco on a tour of all the terrible things he'd done during the next few years.

But then, the quiet, diligent susurrations surrounding Draco were broken by a loud grunt, then a crash from three rows over, and Draco looked to see a fifteen-year-old Harry Potter lying on the floor clutching his head and moaning.

Draco's palms began to sweat. _He remembered this._ He remembered thinking Potter just wanted to get out of the exam, using his madness as an excuse. The old examiner, whose name eluded Draco, was shuffling over to Potter as quickly as he could, and all the students around Draco were getting to their feet to gain a better view. The muttering on all sides made it impossible for him to hear what Potter was saying, but he was conscious now, and getting shakily to his feet. Draco could do little but stare as Potter left the hall pale-faced and clammy looking.

This was just too weird.

It was probably logical that his knocked out brain had decided to revisit this event, Draco tried to reason with the panic edging into his mind. He had just seen that article about his old school rivals, _and_ he'd been thinking about the events that happened on the evening of his final exam: his father's arrest, Voldemort's big return. He supposed he'd wake up soon enough, but then he had never experienced the sensation of _knowing_ he was dreaming before.

He definitely felt awake though, he thought, as he looked down at himself and noted he was no longer in his winter coat, but his thin, white uniform shirt. His sleeves were rolled back, and the sight of his pale, unblemished forearms made him blink dazedly. No Dark Mark inked on the inside of his left arm. Maybe this dream wasn't so bad after all… if it was a dream. The desktop was warm under his fingertips, and the back of his head hurt where he'd hit it on the pavement. The wool of his school trousers itched the back of his legs where they rested on the seat of the chair, and he could feel that one of his shoes was tied tighter than the other. Those things didn't happen in dreams, did they?

No one was taking any notice of him as he sat there, quietly questioning his sanity, they were all being told to return their attention to their exam papers. Deciding to take action, because in dreams it didn't matter what you did, and expecting to wake up the moment he moved, Draco stood. His chair legs made an ungodly squeaking on the wooden floor in the quiet, but he ignored it and turned to leave the room.

Almost at once the examiner's voice rang out, reedy and concerned across the open hall, "Excuse me, please resume your seat, there are only five minutes to go."

The whole hall swivelled in their chairs to see who'd been told off, and Draco froze. A hundred faces he thought he'd forgotten stared back at him, so familiar, so unsettling real. This was definitely the strangest dream he'd ever had.

Greg Goyle sat a row to his left and one in front, and he gave Draco a confused grin as he sat down once more. Seeing Goyle made Draco scan the backs of the heads in front of him, searching for Vince's bristly buzz-cut. _There,_ in the second row was Draco's fallen friend. He sat hunkered over his exam, reading a question so slowly Draco could see his lips moving with each word. There was an ache in Draco's chest, he was at a complete loss. For a moment his mind's-eye filled with flames, blistering on all sides, and the weight of his friend's death seemed to hit him all over again.

Automatically, Draco patted his pockets for his wand, desperately hoping he could _Enervate_ himself out of this lunacy, and just like last time he'd looked for his wand, he found the now familiar, handsome white pawn waiting patiently to be removed to the open air once more.


	4. Chapter Three: Through the Fire

_Thanks so much for all the comments! I'm super busy in R/L right now but I'll reply to all of you soon, promise! (I thought a new chapter was better use of my limited time than review replies this week, I hope you understand! xx)_

* * *

 _ **Through the Fire**_

* * *

Draco thought he ought be congratulated on the way he'd handled his predicament so far. He had not caused a scene, but merely sat in silence among his fifth year fellows as they all scratched out their final answers on their exam papers. He had even answered a question on his own exam, deciding that, dream or not, he could quite easily list the powers a dementor uses to subdue their victims. He had first hand experience after all.

Then the examiner, Tofty, Draco remembered now, called time, and summoned their answer sheets to the front and dismissed them.

The grating squeak of a hundred chair legs and sighs of relief that the exam was finished seemed to grow and swell like a living thing, louder and louder as the fifth years realised their freedom.

Draco stood with the rest of the departing students and filed towards the Entrance Hall. There was exuberant chattering all around him; it was disorientating and seemed so frivolous as he tried to decide what to do now. The noise made it hard to focus, random words reached his ears, interrupting his train of thought-

 _"_ _It's over! … What was with Potter? ... I'm starving … Finally, no more exams!"_

The deja vu was mounting to an almost debilitating level as he was jostled to and fro, slightly unsteady on his feet. It was just like when he'd finished his final exam: the calls across the crowd, the plans for parties, the promises of smuggled in drink. The happy excited atmosphere had been infectious he remembered. But now even the smell of Hogwarts was overwhelming, with all the students pressed together in close quarters, the inevitable bottleneck at the doors, the girls with their flowery hair potions, and the boys with that adolescent mix of cheap aftershave and muskiness.

Thankfully the air in the Entrance Hall was fresh and a welcome change from the stuffy Great Hall. Draco drew in deep breaths, trying not to panic as he was shunted from side to side by the shifting crowd of students.

He heard both Greg and Vince calling after him as the crowd moved along, but he ignored them. He couldn't imagine that even they, as dense as they were, wouldn't notice that he wasn't quite right. He also didn't think he'd be able to hold it together if he had to look into Vince's face. Instead he focused on the great oak front doors, which were open to the smooth sloping lawn, and the summer sun was so gloriously real looking Draco felt like he hadn't seen real sun for years.

That was when it struck, triggered by the sight of streaming sunshine- his panic and racing heart- the complete feeling of unreality vanished in one sweep as Draco was hit by a full-blown epiphany.

The last time he was free, truly free, it was this summer day.

This very night, his father would be arrested at the Ministry; the event had sealed Draco's fate. Voldemort's return was to become public knowledge the next day. Draco's path was set.

It was a surreal feeling to recognise such a significant moment in one's own life. His legs continued to carry him towards the doors automatically as his mind became so clear, so absolutely aware of his position at that moment.

The little pawn in Draco's fist squirmed then, and Draco nearly dropped it on the wide, front steps as he left the Entrance Hall. He'd completely forgotten he was even carrying it.

The soldier scowled up at him, clearly not pleased with the crushing grip and near dropping. Draco veered to the right, moving out of sight of the hall and the milling students waiting for dinner. He leaned back against the weathered, ancient wall of the castle, absorbing the full intensity of the early evening sun. Despite his confusion and anxiety, the simple pleasure of the hot summer rays had him wanting to smile.

After a moment Draco lifted his hand to eye-level and opened his palm flat so the little man could stand and look at him. "Why are you even in my dream?" Draco asked, hoping that he could get some clue about the magic going on here, but the pawn merely shook his handsome head and shrugged his uniformed shoulders.

"Is it a dream?" Draco wondered aloud, as he tucked the pawn away in his shirt pocket again, a bit disappointed but not really surprised that a chess piece didn't have any insight into his situation. His eyes closed once more, the sun felt almost medicinal, warming his face, so calm, so sweet, so opposite to the last year of his life; fear and shivering, that pretty much summed up his existence after the Dark Lord fell.

Eventually Draco peeked back around the door into the hall, but all was quiet, dinner must have begun. He rested the back of his head against the warm stone of the castle again. If this wasn't a dream he'd be better off going to top himself right now, rather than relive the next two years. He checked his watch, it was ten past five. A sad, little smile pulled at his lips as he gazed fondly at the timepiece strapped to his wrist. His father had given him this watch. Draco'd not seen it since he entered Azkaban.

 _Azkaban_ , he mused sadly. Tonight, his father was going to be sent there. It was this errant thought that caused an amazing and frightening idea to come to him. The idea that if this was _not_ a dream, then could he change things? Would he be able to change the past, possibly stop his father from getting caught, from being outed as a Death Eater?

Draco's stomach seemed to sink as he realised it would be too late to get a message to his father, that they would be caught now. The Death Eaters had been hidden in the Department of Mysteries since the night before, waiting for Potter to arrive. Someone else then… his mother perhaps, but how could he explain that he even knew about the plan to ambush Potter? And an owl would take too long. He glanced at his bare left forearm and experienced the strangest disappointment that the Dark Mark was not there.

"Draco?" A quiet voice interrupted these swirling thoughts.

Draco started, and his head whipped around to see who had discovered him. It was Tracey Davis, a girl Draco had almost forgotten about. She was smiling nervously at Draco, her wavy black hair ruffling in the summer breeze, her dark eyes questioning. Draco had definitely forgotten how pretty Tracey had been.

"What are you doing out here?" Tracey asked, with the same soft voice, she looked a little concerned.

Draco felt the corner of his mouth lift in response to the question and how absurd it would be to answer honestly. _I'm having a minor breakdown about whether or not I can change history._ Instead, he replied vaguely, gesturing to the brightly lit sky, "It's a nice day."

"True," Tracey agreed, casting a cursory look out over the grounds. "Um, about the other day," she continued, clearly uncomfortable, "you're not, er…"

Draco's mouth fell open slightly. This had to be a joke, or weird concussion karma; here he was on the last day of peace he'd had in his life, only to be reminded of the girl who'd, not broken his heart, certainly not, but perhaps scuffed it up a little.

'The other day' could only mean one thing in Draco's memory. Their last shared Inquisitorial Squad patrol before exams had started—which they had spent in a disused classroom on the sixth floor—with Draco's belt unbuckled and her hands wandering more than they ever had before.

Draco grimaced bitterly, suddenly remembering the way this conversation had gone the first time, with Tracey's insistence that they weren't actually a couple, just having a bit of fun, and they shouldn't do it anymore; because _N.E.W.T._ prep was more important. They had been in the deserted Slytherin common room though, not standing on the sunny front steps, and Draco had been too surprised and, he could admit it now, too hurt to argue back.

Not this time though. He sent Tracey his best haughty glare.

"I'm not what?" he ground out through his teeth, "getting too _attached?_ "

Seemingly of their own volition, Draco's fingers ran over the little bump of the pawn in his breast pocket as he spoke, as if to remind himself of Timworth's words. The move he wished he could make and the one that was possible were the same thing now, how ironic.

"Um, no," Tracey stammered, taken aback by his unexpectedly harsh tone, "I was just wondering if you were seeing anyone else, Pansy keeps banging on about the two of you."

"Oh," Draco huffed, blindsided, this really didn't add up - why would Tracey care if he was seeing Pansy when she, Tracey, was about to dump him anyway? He thought back, trying to remember that last proper conversation he'd had with Tracey before the end of term... The common room had been empty, because most people had still been at breakfast. But Draco had been unable to eat, so full of concern over his father's arrest…. This thought made it click into place. Had Tracey dumped him to avoid being tarred with the nasty Death Eater brush? Well, he couldn't really blame her for that.

"Pansy is delusional," he muttered, the dramas of fifth year were so petty compared with the darkness that was coming.

His words had caused a pleased smile to break across Tracey's pretty face, but it just made him feel weird and queasy, and his heart began to race once more. _What was he doing standing here, wasting time?_

"I have to go," Draco said abruptly, as he pushed himself away from the wall and hurried back up the front steps again, leaving a perplexed and put-out looking Tracey behind him.

* * *

Back inside the castle, Draco decided he had to try. If this was real, if he _truly_ was in his own past, then he had to try to find a way to save his father from arrest, to save his family from destruction.

The eerily quiet Entrance Hall gave him no inspiration, the buzz of chattering students through the doors to the Great Hall was far too intimidating, and he didn't dare head down to Slytherin where someone was bound to notice that he was not himself. In the end, he started up the marble staircase, with the vague idea of visiting the library when it hit him:

 _Potter._

Potter, Draco realised, _was_ a viable option, because if Potter didn't arrive at the Ministry, the Death Eaters would stay hidden and be able to leave undetected.

Immediately, Draco knew what he needed to do. The events of this evening had been told and retold by the Death Eaters that lived at Malfoy Manor the coming summer. They had all been so impressed by the Dark Lord's clever plan to lure Potter out of school. The vision of Sirius Black being tortured, the elf at Headquarters lying to Potter when he tried to check if Black was there.

And then, Draco remembered, Potter and Granger caught in Umbridge's office.

He'd been there himself, he'd watched Granger's convincing performance, tricking Umbridge into thinking they were trying to talk to Dumbledore. He'd believed it himself at the time. It was only later that he'd put two and two together and understood that they were trying to reach Black. That had been why Potter was so pale, so frightened looking; he'd thought the Dark Lord had captured his godfather.

And it was happening at this moment.

Potter was trying to talk to Black through the fire in Umbridge's office, so if Draco could tell Potter Black was safe, then he wouldn't charge off to the Ministry, and the Order wouldn't have to go after them and catch the Death Eaters waiting there.

 _Okay, that seems simple enough_ , Draco thought, turning at the top of the stairs and heading in the direction of the Defence classroom. If he could get into the office before the others, then he could warn Potter, get him out of there before the elf told him the lie.

Draco's fast walk became a sprint, as his determination urged him on, he could keep his family safe, him. His father would be so proud. Draco's fifteen-year-old legs were much stronger than his prison weakened ones, he felt so fit, so full of boundless energy. He wouldn't have been surprised if he got airborne as he pelted up two flights of stairs and took a shortcut through the Defence classroom.

Draco reached the corridor that held Umbridge's office in record time. He could hear Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood singing _Weasley is Our King_ at either end, they had their backs to him. He remembered this, he remembered them singing as the Inquisitorial Squad approached with Umbridge. Weasley and Lovegood obviously had a better view of the incoming people, because Draco couldn't see the professor or any members of the squad yet.

Taking advantage of their distraction, Draco dashed across the open space from the classroom into one of the castle's many convenient alcoves. the covert space was directly across from Umbridge's door and held a bust muttering in Latin. He took a breath, marvelling at his stamina, being fifteen again was bloody amazing. Then he shot across the corridor and through the unlocked door into Umbridge's office.

At first glance it looked completely deserted, not a thing out of place: the walls with their horribly tacky kitten-painted plates, the liberal smattering of fussy doilies and potted plants, and the shiny brass block on the desk that read, _Headmistress._

But then he caught sight of Potter's arse poking out of the green-flamed fire. He cursed, searching left and right for Granger in the cluttered office, was he too late? The elf would have been waiting, he would have already fed Potter the lie.

Seeing no one but Potter's bum, he approached the fire quickly, unsure how to get his attention without inadvertently feeling him up, when suddenly, there was a blunt wand tip jabbed in the side of his neck.

"Hold it, Malfoy."

Hermione Granger had appeared out of thin air on his right, her hand closed around the wrist of his wand arm, and she was glaring at him so maliciously Draco did not doubt her intent for a moment. He knew so much more about her now—the stories after the war, the things she'd done to aid Potter, the magic she was capable of—there was genuine trepidation in his chest as he met her fierce expression.

He held up his free hand. "You need to get out of here," he said at once, glad his voice didn't betray his fear. He knew they had mere minutes, he couldn't hesitate. "Umbridge is coming, the Dark Lord doesn't have Black, it's a trap."

There was commotion in the corridor outside as he finished speaking, and Granger's eyes flicked to the door. The singing had become shouting. "How do you know?" she asked urgently, pushing her wand hard into his throat.

"Does it matter?" He tilted his head back to lessen the pressure, and her fingers on his right arm became bitingly tight. "Don't let Potter go to the Ministry, it's a trap."

Granger's face went completely white as she absorbed the meaning of this sentence, that he really did know about what was going on, and her eyes narrowed in distrust. "Why would you care?"

"I don't," Draco spat, annoyed that she wasn't acting at once, "but you need to get the hell out of here."

As he said this he suddenly realised how the situation would look if they were discovered, him and Granger in the office, Potter in the fire; he'd be accused of being in league with them. That would be worse for his father than prison, the Dark Lord would not forgive. Potter and Granger could not be in the room when Umbridge entered.

There was only one solution Draco could see. He moved quickly before Granger could stop him, and placed his foot on Potter's bum and shoved hard, sending him headfirst through the flames. Then he pushed Granger toward the green fire, forcing her wand down as he maneuvered her toward the fireplace, using all the strength he had. But she didn't fight back the way he expected her too.

"If this is a trick—" she started, but there was another loud bang out in the corridor, and Draco heard Neville Longbottom's strangled voice.

 _"_ _Get off her! Ginny, hex him!"_

This seemed to decide Granger. She wrenched herself from Draco's grip and shoved him roughly away before she crouched to enter the still burning flames. "Tell Ron we've gone to Snuffles," she threw at him in parting, and then dove through after Potter.

A moment after Granger's shoe disappeared, the door to the office was flung open, startling Draco from his indignation at being manhandled and ordered around by _Granger_ , being told to talk to _Weasley_ of all horrid things.

"Aha!" Umbridge's accusatory shout echoed dismally in the empty room. She was framed in the doorway, stout, panting heavily, her toad-like face red, and her absurd black hair bow had slipped and now sat perched on her left ear.

Draco couldn't believe he'd respected this woman once. When compared to the furious determined steel he'd seen in Granger's eyes only moments before, Umbridge now appeared blustering and incompetent.

Draco lifted a cool eyebrow in response to her presence, and held up his hands in what he hoped appeared to be amused surrender.

"What?" he asked, trying to muster the drawl he'd been so good at once upon a time, all the while his heart drummed a rapid tattoo in his chest. Bluffing his way out of this seemed to be his only hope.

"What?!" Umbridge all but shrieked, "You have been caught breaking into my office!"

" _I_ didn't break in," Draco said disdainfully, taking a few steps away from the professor to lean casually against the window ledge. He braced his shaking hands on the sill on either side of his hips so they would not give him away. "I got the message for the squad to assemble and find the perpetrators who _had_ broken in." He looked at Umbridge with wide innocent eyes. "Was I wrong to assume you wished us to meet here like usual?"

The fury was draining from Umbridge's flabby face, and she lowered her wand. "And you saw no one?" Her voice was uneven, the disappointment at having missed Potter again was clear, because Draco was sure she knew it was Potter. She had been obsessed with expelling him that year. No wonder Draco had approved of her methods.

Draco shook his head, his pulse slowing. Of course she believed him, he had been an unrelenting suck up so awed by her power and pull with the Minister, because it was even greater than Lucius's had been.

"I arrived just before you," he said, as a revolted tremor crawled through him at this self-realisation. He swallowed, sickened by his own actions, but managed to hold onto his nonplussed expression. "But the door was unlocked, I must have just missed them."

"Did you pass anyone on your way here? Anyone suspicious?"

"Not that I can recall." Draco shrugged in faux apology. "If that's all then, I need to eat before patrols start, Headmistress," he added politely, desperate to leave the room. The sweet kittens on the walls were looking more and more sinister with every passing moment.

"Yes, I suppose you do." Umbridge had moved to the desk now and was shuffling bits of parchment around. "Thank you for your support, Mr Malfoy,"

"Of course, Headmistress," Draco said courteously, his pre-war-self coming to the surface more easily now, his words seemed to form without effort, "My father speaks so highly of you, Madam Umbridge."

"Does he?" Umbridge graced him with a smug smile, clearly bolstered by the praise. "Well, he has your best interests at heart no doubt."

Draco nodded, as he reached the door. "Good evening, Headmistress."

As Draco exited the room he came face-to-face with Greg, Vince, Millicent, and Tracey, all restraining Potter's friends. He smirked at them as he passed, the last bit of cockiness he possessed, because the moment he was out of sight he began to run.

The horrible fear was back, the absence of necessity to carry on meant his body could give in. The magnitude of his actions seemed to weigh heavier and heavier with every step, almost crushing as he tried to escape it by moving more quickly, pretending he had a purpose.

If this was real, and he was starting to think that it was, then he had just altered history, massively. Possibly changed the course of the whole war.

Unable to face food, or fellow Slytherins, Draco continued up through the castle. He was heading to the library, where he doubted he would find much relevant information about time travel or what to do when reliving one's own life, but at least he could be certain of quiet there. He needed somewhere to have his breakdown in peace.


	5. Chapter Four: Weasley

_Thanks to The Color of Boom for finding time to beta this (even if it was at 3am!) And thanks to all you fantastic reviewers, I promise I get to the replies soon, real life has been a bit hectic._

* * *

 ** _Weasley_**

* * *

It wasn't until nearly curfew that Draco's peaceful corner of the library was disturbed. He was sitting with his head in his hands, as he had been for the last three hours, in one of the armchairs as far as possible from Madam Pince's desk. He was trying to come to terms with the idea that this wasn't all a dream, that somehow Mr Timworth's little pawn had brought him back to his own past.

 _But for what?_ he asked himself for the hundredth time, raking his hair back habitually, trying to release some of his pent-up frustration into the action. It didn't work, and his forehead dropped to the cradle of his palms once more. _Purpose_ was the real issue he'd decided, while staring at his knees, because while time-travel was rare, it wasn't unheard of. What really had him going around in circles was the reason for all this. Was he supposed to change the past? _It's a bit late now,_ he thought, uneasy about his rash actions down in Umbridge's office the more he dwelt on it.

If this was a pre-planned plot Mr Timworth had really been risking a lot to send Draco here, Draco was assuming that it wasn't just some random chess-related accident. Mr Timworth's instance about life and chess mirroring each other held a whole lot more meaning now. But how could Timworth have known that Draco was the right person to send? That he wouldn't just help the Dark Lord to return sooner, help him take over the Ministry, kill Dumbledore, and Potter? Unless that _was_ what Timworth wanted… but that didn't seem right; Dark Side supporters didn't have squibs for housekeepers.

Draco could still do these things, he supposed, help the Dark Side. He could go right now and set to work fixing the vanishing cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things. Then he could go to the Dark Lord with his foolproof plan to assassinate Dumbledore. He, Draco would be honoured above all others.

But… the carnage, the torn community that followed Voldemort's downfall made Draco think twice. All those people screaming for the Death Eaters' blood, those people would never have let Voldemort rule them, they never would have just lain down and taken it.

A wizarding world with Voldemort at its head would never have been a peaceful one.

There was also the fact that Draco knew the Dark Lord was wrong now. He knew that mudbloods and half-bloods were just as magically powerful as purebloods. They were different—there was no denying that, and the more wizards bred with muggles the more wizarding identity would be lost—but they were just as worthy of a life, of freedom as any pureblood.

It was this grim thought that Ron Weasley interrupted, his heavy footsteps even audible on the thick carpet of the library floor. Ron was clearly not expecting to find Draco lurking in the forgotten rows in the bowels of the library, because his apprehensive expression became a scowl as soon as he spotted Draco.

But instead of the usual ' _Eff off Malfoy,'_ coupled with a middle finger, Weasley did nought but mutter, "Bloody hell," with a frustrated sigh and then turn on his heel and leave at once.

Draco leaned around his armchair to watch as Weasley walked away. Nonplussed by the out of character behaviour and a little disappointed that Ron wasn't as confrontational as he remembered. Draco had always enjoyed winding him up.

The Gryffindor had a definite slump to his shoulders as he trudged down the reference section row, toward the exit. He was probably looking for Potter and Granger Draco realised, thinking it through. Weasley would have known about the vision, then Potter and Granger ran off to Umbridge's office, and he, Weasley, hadn't seen them since.

Draco replayed Granger's last words to him before she'd flung herself into the fire. _Tell Ron we've gone to Snuffles's._

Ron was nearly out of sight then, right at the end of the row, and there was an uneasy lump sitting heavily in Draco's stomach. A lump that was directly related to the sight of the dejected Ron Weasley. This reality was definitely fucking with him. What should he care if Weasley was worried? But it turned out he did, because Draco was suddenly on his feet, quickly covering the distance to the door out of the library.

Draco followed Weasley cautiously, still unsure whether or not to do what was undoubtedly the right thing. He really didn't remember having such a nagging conscience when he was fifteen, but he certainly did now. Moving faster, he caught up to Ron just as he'd started up the stairs to the seventh floor.

"Weasley," Draco said, as he checked the surrounding area for lurking Gryffindors who might pounce on him for talking to their heroic Keeper.

Ron paused and turned, drawing his wand in a fast movement. Draco eyed it apprehensively, his own would be useless in a duel… _or would it?_ A little spark of hope flared in him, and he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it sooner. The pawn may have travelled with him here, but he was now dressed in his school uniform, rather than his winter gear he'd had on in the alley before he hit his head. So maybe his wand was his own untampered one from fifth year too?

"Bugger off, Malfoy," Ron warned. He looked quite wild up close, clearly worried about the whereabouts of his friends. His thick ginger hair was wayward, sticking up in odd places as though he'd be tugging at it haphazardly, and his wide, panicked eyes didn't seem to blink quite enough; but his teeth clenched furiously as he glared at Draco.

Draco decided it was best to put him out of his misery. "Granger says they have gone to Snuffles's."

Ron's anger and caution morphed to confusion, eyebrows high as he stared gormlessly for a moment. But his anger returned the second he found his voice, "What!? Why the bloody hell would she tell _you_ that?"

"Because I saw them go," Draco replied shortly. "But play dumb if anyone asks, should be easy enough," he added nastily, unable to help himself. But he bit his childish tongue to add, "Hopefully everyone will just think Potter's lost the plot completely and run off with Granger."

This statement caused Ron's flummoxed face to contort to a grimace. "Yeah, whatever Malfoy." He huffed, and his wand twitched in his hand, making Draco wonder if he was about to be jinxed.

"I was only trying to help," Draco shot at him, feeling once again like he was fifteen, and both guilty and embarrassed to have exposed himself as having a conscience, "Shouldn't have bothered."

"As if," Ron snarled back. "What do you know? How do you know the name Snuffles?"

He advanced and held his wand a little higher, and Draco stumbled half a step back. Had Weasley really been this tall in fifth year? _Unnatural gangly beast._

"What have you done to them?" Ron continued, pressing his advantage.

"Nothing," Draco replied frustratedly, planting his feet but resolutely not drawing his wand; surely a chivalrous Gryffindor wouldn't attack an unarmed man. But it was quite obvious that Weasley did not believe Draco's words, it was all over his freckled face.

Draco sent him one last narrow-eyed glare and muttered, "What a waste of time, sodding ginger idiot." He began to stalk off, intending to leave before hexes started flying, telling himself that it would be wise to test his wand before he got into a duel. The reactionary adolescent voice inside him suggested he just punch Weasley instead, wands be damned, because there was something about Weasley that got his blood boiling in the most irrational way.

Before he got more than three steps onto his moral high ground however, a black robed figure loomed from the shadows directly into Draco's path, and he pulled up short, his hand going to his wand on instinct.

"It is after curfew," the figure said in a clipped voice Draco recognised immediately. The long, sallow face of Professor Snape was barely visible in the dark, but there was no doubt it was him. The professor stood in the deep shadow cast between the torches burning in brackets on the corridor walls.

Draco looked back at Weasley, half expecting to be ratted out to Snape for kidnapping Potter and Granger or something else ridiculous. But the Gryffindor had scarpered, clearly not willing to add a detention from Snape to his undoubtedly shitty day. Apparently bravery was only a preferred house virtue, rather than requirement.

"Sorry Professor," Draco said, returning his gaze to Snape.

He found himself unable to say more, thunderstruck by the knowledge that he hadn't gone to his Head of House at once, the moment he had left his exam. Severus would have been the logical choice for help. Well, that was until Draco had gone and upset the original string of events, because now Snape, the wizard who'd become the Dark Lord's right hand, would probably be less inclined to help him.

There had been rumors that Snape was a double agent, working from within the Dark Lord's ranks to bring him down, but Draco didn't believe them. He'd seen Snape murder Dumbledore with his own eyes. Snape had been loyal to his last breath, killed in the final battle at Hogwarts. Draco was yet to learn how, it was very difficult to find out information about a war when no one would talk to you. But he knew Snape was the best spy the Dark Lord had possessed, lying in wait for years and years, infiltrating Hogwarts, the last place, the _only_ place the Dark Lord had never been able to control until the very end.

And now, depending how much he had heard of Draco's words to Weasley, he, Snape, knew that Draco had helped Potter leave the castle, or at least hadn't tried to stop him. Then, with a thrill of horror Draco remembered that the Order of the Phoenix still believed Snape was on their side at this point in time, so Snape had possibly had communication from them about exactly how much Draco had done to thwart the Dark Lord. Because surely Granger and Potter would have had told whoever they'd met at headquarters exactly what Draco had said.

This fact caused a cold dread to ripple across his skin and made him grip his wand more tightly. Snape would know that Draco had far more information than he should; knowing about the vision, and the plot with the elf.

"I'll just be going then," Draco managed, backing away from the Potions Master who was looking at him steadily, his black eyes focused on Draco's own.

 _Shit_.

Draco knew what Snape was doing so he blinked and looked away, struggling to empty his mind.

Remembering the lessons he'd had with Aunt Bella, Draco brought up the most powerful memory he had and therefore the easiest one to focus on, to stop Snape from seeing the truth in his mind.

The blank stone wall of his cell in Azkaban was so clearly etched in his mind. He had stared at it for hours, days on end, he could remember every inch of it: the uneven, badly hewn surface, the putrid grime of centuries coating it, the constant dirty moisture that had run in rivulets down well-travelled grooves. The picture filled his mind, and as it did, the feeling of helplessness that the Dementors inflicted on their prisoners came flooding back too.

"Draco?" Snape said, his voice entirely different, almost fearful, and Draco realised his mistake; most fifth year students could not perform occlumency, let alone block Snape's prodigious legilimency skill.

"I need to get to bed Professor," Draco said, still backing away, his mind's eye still full of the wall, something he knew he'd never forget as long as he lived.

"Do not speak to anyone else," Snape warned, allowing Draco's departure, but his was face inscrutably blank, "Stay in your dormitory until I come for you."


	6. Chapter Five: Flight

_This chapter is un-beta'd, Poor Boomie is too busy dealing with real life. I could have waited but am impatient, so please be kind about grammar/poorly arranged sentences/etc!_

 _Also, just to reiterate, there are two versions of this story, this one is an eventual Draco/Hermione pairing, and the other (being posted at my slash account) is a Draco/Harry- I've had a few concerned messages from readers who think either Mrs J or George are plagiarizing. Nope! I'm just insane and decided to write two stories at once because I couldn't decide which way to go. xx_

* * *

 _ **Flight**_

* * *

Draco was very grateful for the post-exam revelry taking place in the common room when he entered, because his housemates could not have been more distracted. The low table in front of the ornate fireplace was covered in the remnants of party food; crisp crumbs and scraped bare dip bowls sat haphazardly next to a few squashed eclairs, the only remaining sweets on a large platter that would have been piled high when it was liberated from the kitchen hours before.

All manner of empties littered the rest of the table, butterbeer and pumpkin juice being most prevalent, but there was at least two bottles of Ogden's that Draco could see, and a nearly finished Genovian Gin was tucked into one corner, half disguised by a crumpled crisp bag. The first time he had experienced this night had been brilliant, drinking and laughing and snogging Tracey in a dark corner while their friends were otherwise occupied.

It had not been until the following day that Tracey had called off their tryst, just after breakfast when the news of Voldemort's return had filtered through the hall from the few who received newspapers. The names of the arrested Death Eaters had begun to leak out at that time too. Tracey, Slytherin through and through, had been pretty quick to distance herself from Draco and his incarcerated father to ensure her own social survival. Though Draco supposed that his recent conversation with Tracey out on the front steps meant that she had been planning on ending it anyway, this gave Draco a depressing kind of closure; it wasn't his family's image that Tracey had been keen to avoid, it was just that she didn't like Draco very much anymore.

Tonight however, Draco did not have time to wallow in dejection, _stupid Tracey getting in his head without even trying._ Draco scowled as he dodged through the celebrating crowd avoiding eye contact with everyone. He actually had to duck under a seventh year's flailing arm as the boy gave an enthusiastic demonstration of his impressive DADA _N.E.W.T._ practical to a cheering audience. It was definitely a boisterous party.

Draco managed to reach the corridor to the sleeping quarters without notice, or without being waylaid at any rate. A voice he thought belonged to Pansy Parkinson called his name across the room, but there was no one following as he entered the relative quiet of the corridor.

Having given it little thought Draco was surprised by the walloping strength of the emotion that hit him as he opened the fifth years dormitory door. His breath left him in a sigh of fondness for the familiar and secure sight; Four beds with green velvet hangings, his own, second from the door seemed to beckon him. The trunks that stood at the end of each bed were all shut, but with sleeves and scarves trailing out of them, school books shoved on top, clearly dropped without care because they wouldn't be needed again this term.

Blaise's bed was the only one made properly, he was such a finicky bugger. Both Greg and Vince had never even bothered to pull their covers up, always rolling out of bed at the last moment and leaving their sleeping places in a total shambles. Draco's own bed was not quite as messy, but his fifteen-year-old self thought it house-elf work to make one's bed, so he did little more than tidy it on a daily basis.

The ghost of a smile touched his face at the thought of the self-important boy he'd been. That boy would have been horrified to learn that Draco had been performing most of the house-elf duties at Mundungus Fletcher's flat. It was part of his job with Dung to make all the beds, take the linens to be laundered, and fetch dinner and grocery items. Thankfully his wand had still been powerful enough for cleaning spells, the idea of scrubbing the grotty toilet in that flat by hand was almost enough to make him want to go back to prison.

The sounds of the party in the common room were muted as Draco shut the door and moved further into the room. Then, as he approached the slightly crooked silver-grey bedspread covering his bed, Draco remembered very clearly that the morning of his final exam he'd been woken by a nightmare. It had been something pointless about his father's disappointment if he did not do well in his _O.W.L.'s_.

Draco sank onto his bed, overwhelmed by the bleak irony - his father had never even seen his results. Perhaps he would this year… though could Draco even see him? If the Dark Lord accused him, Draco, of treachery, then it was unlikely that there would be time for father/son bonding over school marks. Only a swift cruciatus as a warning to the others and then the inevitable Avada Kedavra.

Draco glanced around the room, he wasn't completely sure why he'd followed Snape's order to wait in his dormitory, but he was so confused by this whole situation having someone tell him what to do had been a sort of relief. Even if that person could possibly be receiving orders at that moment to come and finish Draco off.

Draco shook his head, there were too many what-ifs, it was giving him a headache. He decided to turn his attention to something less grim, and scooted back on the bed, drawing the curtains as he went. He pulled his wand out eager to test it, to see if it fit this time, rather than the one he had known until yesterday. He reached out, fossicking in his nightstand for something to test his magic on, and found an old dog-eared timetable from the previous term. That would do nicely. He held it gingerly by one corner and pointed his wand at it, focusing hard.

Then he flicked his wand up and murmured, " _Incendeo!"_

At once the paper burst into flames and Draco, surprised that it had been so easy, dropped the burning timetable in shock. It landed on his leg and he swore, flicking it off and hastily smothering it with a corner of his rumpled bedding.

With his heart racing from the sudden and short lived panic Draco stared at his wand. True relief and happiness filled him for the first time in what felt like years. _His_ wand, the one he and his parents had bought at Ollivander's, the one Potter had wrenched from his hand so many years later and used to kill Voldemort. It had been returned to Draco after his release from prison but striped down, reduced to a weak imitation of the one he'd used so proudly before. And now, now it was back. It even felt different in his hand, warmer… though that could be because he was gripping it so tight.

But what was he to do now? Sit here and wait for Professor Snape? There was a possibility that he could convince Snape that he'd been acting in the Dark Side's interest, that everything he'd said to Granger was just a cover. He could say he'd heard a rumour that the Order were planning to use Potter as bait to lure the Dark Lord out, that the trap was going to be reversed… this was the most feasible thing Draco could come up with. Where he could have heard such a rumour was beyond him right then. But the thought of venturing out of the safe little space on his mattress was rather daunting so he stayed, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his new old wand held tight in his fist.

Draco sat this way as the sounds of his dorm mates coming to bed reached him, no one bothered to check if he was in bed or out, they were probably all boozed.

* * *

Draco's watch told him it was two thirty in the morning when the dormitory door finally creaked open, and despite his sudden fear Draco gripped his wand, determined to fight Snape if necessary.

The emerald bed curtains were parted at the foot of his bed and a sliver of dim light from the dormitory fell across Draco's legs. Then in barely a whisper he heard Severus Snape's curt voice, "Hurry Draco, we have little time."

This was not what Draco was expecting, though as he shuffled to the end of the bed with his wand still held tight he supposed Snape would hardly murder him in the middle of the dorm room.

Snape eyed Draco's drawn wand as he emerged, climbing clumsily from the bed while he kept his wand trained on Snape. But the professor said nothing, he just chivvied Draco out of the room, down the corridor and out through the Slytherin common room. The party mess was still evident and Draco felt oddly removed from it all, these strange and constant reminders of his situation were playing havoc with his sanity.

Snape didn't speak until they were in the dark dungeon corridor, still close at Draco's side, his eyes flicked regularly to Draco's steadily held wand.

"I am taking a great risk tonight," he said, his voice was low and venomous as he checked the passage for late night eavesdroppers, "to aid a traitor."

"I'm not a traitor," Draco countered at once, the wall of his Azkaban cell back at the front of his mind as he took a risk and glared at Snape. Perhaps indignant defiance would be enough to convince the Potions Master he was still on his side.

There were no torches burning on the walls down here, but Draco didn't need light to imagine the fury in Snape's face as he spat, "No? You helped Potter leave the school, I'm sure your father -"

"I only did what I did to _help_ my father." Draco interrupted firmly, thinking it strange that Snape was concerned about Potter leaving the school, rather than Potter not turning up at the Ministry. Was it possible that Snape had not known the Dark Lord's plan?

"You only interfered with the Dark Lord's plans to help your father?" Snape repeated, sarcasm suffused his disbelieving question, "Your father who supports him most faithfully?"

"Potter got away from them all, last year," Draco began, cursing himself for not being better prepared, and struggling to give a believable reason for his actions, "the Dark Lord underestimates him, if Potter had turned up at the Ministry, on his guard and better trained than he was last year who knows what would have happened."

Snape considered him for a long moment, long enough for Draco's eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. _Here it comes_ , he thought, _Snape is going to ask how I know about the plan._

But he was wrong. "You seem to think a lot of Potter's skill." Snape said carefully. Still suspicious but clearly confused by Draco's argument.

Draco shrugged and muttered, "Know thy enemy."

"And now you quote muggle texts?" Snape was looking at him as if he'd never seen him before, "What is going on?"

"Nothing." Draco murmured, the truth was he really did think a lot of Potter's skill, he'd seen him duel and beat the Dark Lord, it seemed churlish to say otherwise.

"We must get you out of here," Snape said briskly, setting off down the corridor once more, giving up on questioning Draco for now. "When word spreads, and it undoubtedly will, you need to be somewhere the Dark Lord can not find you."

Hope flickered in Draco's chest as he hurried along in Snape's wake. Maybe Snape _was_ a spy for the Order after all. Aunt Bella had always been so convinced he was untrustworthy, perhaps she was right.

They left the castle and hurried down the long drive, the summer night air was still, and the sweet smells of grass and evergreen from the forest were at odds with the unsettled churning in Draco's stomach as he half-jogged along behind the swiftly striding Snape.

As soon as they reached the tall and imposing gate, which swung open soundlessly at Snape's wand's bequest, the professor grabbed Draco's elbow and twisted on the spot, pulling Draco with him into apparition. The squeeze and breathlessness was only brief, and when Draco opened his eyes he saw they had not travelled far. Before them was the badly hung door of the Hog's Head. Snape did not pause, dragging Draco along by the arm he still held, up the steps and through the rickety door into the pub.

The lingering aroma of smoke and old drink hit Draco like a like a falling stage-curtain as he scanned the deserted tap-room. In a far corner a tall, thin figure sat, a hooded cloak covering his head, his face hidden. Snape steered Draco through the maze of sticky tables towards this ominous person, and Draco was struggling to draw breath, panic filling him with every nearing step; had he been right about Snape's loyalties afterall? Was it Voldemort beneath that hood?

 _Surely not,_ Draco tried to reason with himself, Voldemort would not meet traitors in a pub, there would be too many chances he could been seen, and there was not nearly enough privacy for him to apply his special brand of punishment, before snuffing them out completely…but there was no one else here, the barman wasn't even in sight.

Despite wobbly knees and the fear that he was about to meet his end surging through him, Draco found himself being shoved into the seat opposite the cloaked man by Snape, who nodded and left without a word. Draco's determination to fight had fled long ago, and while he still held his wand it felt like little more than a piece of kindling as the hooded figure lifted its head.

The stuttering candle on the table flickered on a long silver-white beard and Draco felt a wash of relief so strong he actually worried he might faint for a second.

"Good Evening, Mr Malfoy," Albus Dumbledore said cordially from beneath the hood. "I believe you and I need to have a little chat."

Draco didn't know how to respond. Through his lightheaded moment of relief he supposed this was the only option, if he wasn't on the Death Eaters side then he was against them, but he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud.

"I've heard through the grapevine," Dumbledore continued, "that you made a rather surprising decision this evening." he fell silent then, linking his fingers on the table before him and giving Draco time to speak.

Draco took a breath, he wasn't going to tell Dumbledore he'd help him, or had helped Potter for any noble reason, Dumbledore wouldn't believe that anyway. Whatever Draco thought of the exiled Headmaster he knew the man was an excellent judge of character, and Draco's character did not include good deeds for Potter.

"I had to interfere," Draco started, "but it was only to help my-" but he cut his own sentence abruptly short, realising the magnitude of his mistake right then. If Dumbledore knew there were Death Eaters in the Ministry then they would be as good as caught.

"Myself," he improvised weakly, "I was only helping myself, because I don't think my father is right to ally himself with the Dark Lord, his regime will not stand, I don't want to be part of it."

"And yet," Dumbledore contradicted, "You know far more about the events of tonight than even my most informed spies," the old wizard leaned toward him across the table. The candlelight flickered over his up-lit lined face most unflatteringly, there was something very cold in those normally friendly eyes, and when he spoke his voice was hard, serious, and slightly foreboding, "I suggest, Mr Malfoy, that you tell me the truth, the _whole_ truth. Because the alternative is you returning to your home where I'm sure Lord Voldemort will be eager to know why you have disrupted his plans."

Draco gulped, it sounded like Dumbledore already knew what Draco had saved Potter from, did that mean the Death Eaters had been discovered? Draco had no idea how he should handle this. Somehow he didn't think he'd be able to convince Dumbledore that he'd happened upon Potter and Granger in that office, and accidentally kicked them through the fire.

Perhaps sensing Draco's impending surrender Dumbledore added, a little more kindly, "It seems to me, that you have a great deal of knowledge about the catastrophe tonight _could_ have turned into, I've never met a fifteen year old with such impressive … _foresight."_

It was almost as if he already knew… but how could that be? The blue eyes were twinkling at Draco from across the table and he got the impression that Dumbledore was quite as skilled as Snape at penetrating minds. In fact even more so, because it wasn't until it was too late that Draco recognized what was happening.

The chess match between Timworth and himself flashed through his mind, then he and Dung in the kitchen, then the alley he'd run into to get away from the mob of vigilantes. Dumbledore gave no indication that what he was seeing troubled him, he looked merely curious and Draco decided that the truth was the best option.

"When I woke up yesterday morning it was nineteen-ninety-nine. I didn't plan it and I don't know how it happened but I think a chess piece brought me back in time."


	7. Chapter Six: Safe-House

_I apologise for the delay of this chapter, it's been a busy few weeks. Thanks for all the comments! xx_

* * *

 **** _ **Safe-House**_

* * *

A buzzing orange street lamp was the first thing Draco saw when he opened his eyes, after the press of apparition lifted. It was one of many set in front of a grimy terraced housing row that surrounded the unkempt grass square they had appeared on. Rusted iron fences divided the pavement from the private property and there were large plastic bin bags tied off and bulging with rubbish dotted along the curb. Cars lined the street too; this was clearly a muggle area, what on earth were he and Snape doing here?

Then, Professor Snape, who was still standing close at Draco's left after their side-along from Hogsmeade, pushed a slip of parchment into his hand. Draco frowned up at him as he took the parchment, they were passing notes now?

"Hurry up Draco. We need to get inside." Snape looked tired in the orange light, so tired that his usual sneering glower wasn't even in place. Draco knew how he felt, it had been almost twenty-four hours since he'd last slept; he didn't think being knocked out counted.

Draco unfolded the piece of parchment to read one sentence in a narrow loopy hand; ' _You will find a safe place to hide at Number 12 Grimmauld Place London.'_

The moment he had read the words there was a grinding of stone on stone across the road and suddenly number eleven started to shudder to one side. Its window panes reverberated so much that the reflected streetlamps seemed to dance across the glass as the wall moved. _Fidelius_ Draco realised, as Number Twelve shouldered its way into existence between eleven and thirteen.

So, he'd been taken to an Order safe house, or at least somewhere that was pretty strongly magically hidden. His conversation with Dumbledore had obviously gone better than he thought.

Back in the Hog's Head, the exiled Headmaster had been singularly disinterested in the actual details of Draco's apparent time jump, but more focused on his motivation now, and what Draco planned to do with his time here. Because that was something else, Dumbledore had suggested that this reality might not even be permanent, that whatever magic had taken place could have an expiry date, allowing him only a glimpse of the past; twenty-four hours, a week maybe, it would be impossible to know until it was over. This in itself was more than concerning for Draco. But his brain felt sluggish and slow by the end of the meeting, like it had been picked over, pinched and pecked at by Dumbledore's creeping legilimency.

Draco had told Dumbledore truthfully that he was on no one's side but his own, that he would not actively fight for either cause. That all he wanted was to get himself and his family as far away from the impending catastrophe as possible. Perhaps Dumbledore was going to give him what he wanted. He remembered Dumbledore's promise that night atop the astronomy tower, a promise to hide Draco and his mother more completely that he could imagine. A fidelius charmed safe-house was a pretty good start.

While Draco's mind was otherwise occupied, Snape had pulled him across the road. He held the rusting gate aside for Draco to pass through as they approached the peeling black painted front door of Number Twelve. Snape did not knock or ring the bell, instead he slid the tip of his wand over the panelled surface, causing a few slivers of old cracked paint to fall onto the concrete stoop. The door opened as soon as he drew his wand away and once again Draco was pulled by his elbow over the threshold.

The entry was pitch dark and smelled of damp. It was cold too, colder than the warm summer night outside. Draco hugged his arms around his middle, nerves fluttering in his stomach again. He'd imagined Order safe houses to be full of ridiculous muggle contraptions like televisions and coffee machines surrounded by happy idiots yapping on about equality. Not this dark and foreboding atmosphere.

* * *

One floor above Hermione Granger was watching Harry pace. He strode back and forth across the already worn carpet in one of the house's many bedrooms clearly agitated. He was completely unaware that his long-time rival had just arrived at Headquarters.

"Harry will you just sit down," Hermione urged him, she sat on the spare bed in his room, the same room her two best friends had shared in the summer.

Despite the lateness of the hour Hermione could undertand why Harry could not _sit_ , why he could not relax. They were undoubtedly sharing the same confused train of thought. Little more than twelve hours ago Draco- _bloody_ -Malfoy had helped them, helped _their_ side. He had stopped Harry from endangering Ron and Hermione's lives by dragging them to the Ministry to face Voldemort, as he undoubtedly would have if given the chance.

"Why?" Harry asked Hermione for the hundredth time, stopping abruptly mid-stride and sending her an imploring look, as though she may have had some revelation during the four minutes that had passed since he last asked this question. "Why did he do it?"

"I don't know," Hermione replied, she wished she had an answer for him, but all that came to her when she tried to figure it out was a string of unlikely theories and the picture of Malfoy's desperately earnest face back in Umbridge's office. "Maybe he's not just bragging about all the stuff he says he knows." She suggested, "Kreacher has been meeting with his Aunt Bellatrix, maybe she's hiding at his house. He could have known about the plan all along."

Harry grimaced at the mention of Kreacher, the sneaking little weasel. It had only taken one question from Sirius to get the elf to confess. Hermione's determination to improve elf-rights was tested in the extreme as Kreacher boasted about his deception, and then she felt both grateful and disappointed when Emmeline Vance had stopped Sirius from banishing the elf, saying he knew too much to be allowed to leave Grimmauld Place ever again. He was still in the house somewhere, probably smugly cuddling his old mistress's bloomers and happily reliving his deceitful adventure.

Harry and Hermione were yet to learn the details of Voldemort's plot. They had only heard Kreacher's boasts of giving the Dark Lord a way to get Harry out of school, and then Emmeline's curt warning to Sirius when he'd lost his temper and threatened Kreacher with clothes before Mrs Weasley had turned up. She'd had curlers in her hair and wore a traveling cloak over her night dress. She'd been in no mood for argument as she sent Harry and Hermione upstairs until the adults had _'sorted this mess out'_. Sirius had not even intervened, allowing Molly to shoo Harry and Hermione up to the bedroom, while he fumed and ranted about Kreacher.

"Yeah," Harry said slowly, in answer to Hermione's question, "but why would him knowing mean he wanted to interfere? Voldemort clearly went to some effort to get me to think Sirius was in danger, Malfoy probably shouldn't be messing up his dad's boss's plan."

Hermione bit her lip, thinking hard, Harry was right of course. "Maybe this is the plan," she tried, "get you out of school and into trouble." she paused and felt her forehead wrinkle in a heavy frown as she thought it through. "Though if Sirius and Emmeline figure out a way to sneak us back into school soon there will be no proof you ever left. So you won't be in trouble. Voldemort is obviously trying to get you out of the way …" Hermione stopped suddenly as another possibility occurred, Harry looked hopeful, he was used to her figuring their problems out, the lazy bones. "What if that was the plan!" she breathed, "Get you arrested and sent to Azkaban where he or one of his followers could kill you?"

"Resourceful," Harry said, finally dropping down onto the bed dispiritedly.

"That would make sense," Hermione said, trying to sound consoling, but she was distracted as more links from the previous year popped into her head, "Oh my, what if it was him that sent the Dementors too? Not to Kiss you, though I suppose he wouldn't be too concerned if they did, but to get you to break the law and sent to prison?"

"Surprisingly, Hermione, this isn't helping me figure out why Malfoy is suddenly helping us." Harry said through gritted teeth, glaring up at the moulded ceiling; little plaster snakes interwoven with flowers and leaves, last summer Ron had said it made the Slytherin snakes look like ordinary earthworms.

"Right sorry," Hermione placated hastily, but she continued anyway, Harry could just be grumpy for a bit. "but those Dementors have been bugging me all year, it really seems like an inside job but if Vold–"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted in frustration, " _Malfoy_ , we're talking about–"

"Malfoy," Hermione agreed at once, "yes, sorry." Sometimes it was just easier to let Harry think he was controlling the conversation, but it did bother her a little that he couldn't see past the relatively tiny actions of Malfoy when there was obviously something much bigger going on here.

"What did he say to you?" Harry asked, "Could you tell me again?"

"He said that Umbridge was coming so we had to get out of there, and that the Dark Lord didn't have Black, that it was a trap."

Harry did not reply, he lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling, muttering to himself about it not making sense. In the quiet Hermione found herself dwelling on Malfoy too, but rather than _why_ he would interrupt, it was how he'd behaved that confused her. She didn't think they had ever made eye-contact in their entire time at school together, and then suddenly he was speaking to her as though she was an equal of sorts, someone who deserved to be helped, not just a know-it-all mudblood. It was as though he had had some sort of miraculous personality transplant over night. In fact, not even over night, he had sneered at her that very morning as they had been entering the Great Hall for breakfast. What could have happened between breakfast and the end of their History of Magic exam to make him suddenly want to help them?

Baffled by the incongruence of the whole thing Hermione tried to clear her mind, to find a different way of looking at it. As she did this the sound of people coming up the stairs intruded on her thoughts. Out on the landing Hermione heard Emmeline's voice talking quietly as she passed their room. Hermione didn't dare get up to poke her head out the door, Mrs Weasley had been so furious with everyone and she didn't feel like being told off for a second time that night. She grimaced to herself as she replayed Mrs Weasley's reprimands, Molly was just worried, Hermione knew that, but it wasn't like scolding the pair of them would change what had happened. She heard a door close softly down the hall just as Harry spoke once more.

"Do you think there is any way that _this_ is the plan?" he said to Hermione, he seemed to have been listening to the goings on out on the landing too. "Show me a fake vision, get me to panic and try to contact the Order the only instantaneous way I can, and then have Malfoy send me through the fire so I can't come back to school?"

"So much would rely on chance, though." Hermione said, not convinced. "How could Malfoy have known you'd use Umbridge's fire? You could have used any of them."

"But hers was the only one not being monitored," Harry suggested, it was clear in his voice that even he doubted this theory.

"Yes, but we only know that by chance." Hermione pointed out at once, "No other students know that the teachers are being watched, we could have broken into McGonagall's empty office and used hers or the one in the common room. It just seems–"

"Farfetched," Harry finished for her, and he rolled onto his side to look at her across the gap between the beds. There were dark smudges under his eyes behind his lopsided glasses and his hair was sticking up in all directions. He still wore his uniform, just like Hermione, as they had no change of clothes with them. "I know, but then so does Malfoy switching sides, so–"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door and Sirius's dishevelled head poked into the room. He gave them a tired smile and said proudly, "You are being liberated."

Sirius pushed the door open a bit wider as he spoke and Hermione could see that he was carrying dirty bandages, and that the rolled-back sleeves of his white shirt were speckled with blood; Buckbeak was obviously still unhappy about requiring tending to. Sirius had told them last night that the hippogriff was surprisingly indignant about being doctored and did not co-operate peacefully when Sirius had to change his dressings.

"Permission has been granted for you to visit the kitchen," Harry's godfather grinned as he continued, all trace of the furious Kreacher-related anger gone, "Molly's doing breakfast, silver linings, eh?"

Harry and Hermione left the room to head down to breakfast. The smell of bacon and toast wafted up through the old musty house, and Hermione felt slightly better; the impending promise of food after a long restless night was wonderful. Perhaps a full stomach would help her decipher Malfoy's sudden, and rather disconcerting, _decency_.


	8. Chapter Seven: Kreacher

_Thanks for all the comments/faves/follows! I'm slowly getting my replies under control! Bare with me._ _xx_

* * *

 ** _Kreacher_**

* * *

Draco was dozing, having spent the night flitting from terror to apprehension and back again had finally caught up with him.

His limbs were so leaden he doubted he'd be able to move if the Dark Lord himself walked through the door. In contrast, however, his brain was going at hyperspeed. A never ending reel was playing behind his closed lids, the bizarre day's events flashing over and over.

He was concerned now as the twenty-four-hour mark drew nearer, Dumbledore's musings on the possible limited nature of this experience weighed on him. Would he fall asleep here, only to wake up in his cramped bed at Fletcher's like nothing had happened? At least if that was the case he'd know what to do: carry on as he had been. But what if he had actually changed the past? The future might be unrecognisable, he'd have no idea how to deal with that.

Sick of seeing the same string of images, he opened his eyes and stared blankly at the ancient wardrobe that took up most of the wall. It was strange, but he felt oddly at home here in this dank old house. The furniture was rundown and the carpets threadbare, but everything had the same aura as many of the rooms in the manor.

In fact, when Draco had been shown into this room by a young woman, who introduced herself as Vance, he'd had the most bizarre sense of deja vu when they'd passed an ornately carved, ebony sideboard on the landing outside his room. He was sure it was the same as the one in the guest wing at the manor, but it had been a long time since he'd set foot in that part of his old home. Voldemort had taken up residence there two years ago—or Draco realised, he was just about to—the summer after his, Draco's, fifth year.

Would he now though? If the Death Eaters had escaped the Ministry without notice Lucius would still be favored, he would still have enough sway to maintain his privacy. The Dark Lord had been hesitant to jeopardize the respectable public image Lucius had spent so long cultivating; it wasn't until he'd bungled the ambush in the Department of Mysteries that Voldemort had seen fit to impose himself on the Malfoy family home.

Bellatrix and the others, who had escaped from Azkaban in the winter of Draco's fifth year, had been holed up in the old Lestrange house. It was another wizarding country estate like Malfoy Manor, but up in the borderlands, and far from the Ministry in London. Voldemort had been using it as his base until the fiasco at the Ministry had driven him into the open. It was then, he decided being closer to London would be more convenient, and Draco was sure, he'd just wanted to punish Lucius further by forcing him to sit in Azkaban, imagining his wife and son at the mercy of the slovenly creeps who came along when Voldemort moved in.

Strangely, this depressing topic helped calm Draco's busy mind, fond memories of sport-hexing said creeps with Aunt Bella in the first few weeks of summer—before everything turned to shit—distracted him from his current predicament. A fuzzy nothingness had taken over his brain when one of the floorboards near the door gave a loud creak.

Draco shot bolt upright, all lethargy gone in a flash, as he pointed his wand towards the door. Blood rushed in his ears, and he had to blink several times in the dim light to focus. He kept quiet though, unsure if the intruder was friendly.

"So sorry, Mr Malfoy," a voice croaked from behind a breakfast tray. It was held at a few feet from the floor and was obscuring what could only be a house-elf. "Please Mr Malfoy, Sir, I beg your forgiveness, but you have not had anything to eat since you arrived, Kreacher only wishes to leave you some breakfast."

The moment Draco got a whiff of the contents of the tray his stomach gave a loud gurgle, and all objections to the interruption vanished. He'd not realised how hungry he was in his distracted state. He'd even chalked the hollow and uncomfortable feeling in his stomach up to worry. But it seemed it was just hunger, because now he was ravenous.

"Breakfast is welcome," Draco said curtly to the elf, and belatedly lowered his wand.

The old elf scurried forward, his eyes kept low, his hairy ears tilted down; he was the epitome of a subservient pureblood house-elf. With a practiced long-fingered hand he straightened the bedding and placed the breakfast tray over Draco's knees. Draco had forgotten the luxury of house-elf service, he'd become so used to relying only on himself that the sight of the bowed and wrinkled head backing away gave him a pang of nostalgia.

"Call Kreacher if you require anything at all, Mr Malfoy," the elf said sombrely from the door. "Anything," he stressed, hesitating at the doorway. For some reason Draco got the feeling that the creature didn't want to leave the room.

"I will," Draco murmured, as he tucked into his pile of scrambled eggs on toast.

As he ate, he mulled over the idea again that this was not at all what he expected in a safe house. It was just so … wizarding. Draco knew the Order's Headquarters had an elf, but that was because Headquarters was the grand old Black house. Aunt Bella had always described it as a glorious example of magical architecture, hidden from all who were not worthy. Even she could not speak its address, though she maintained that if she had married within the family it would have been hers. Draco knew it was in London somewhere, probably set in park-like gardens full of exotic magical plants.

But this grimy old terrace must belong to some other old family, since it had an elf. Draco wracked his brain for old families who'd allied themselves with Dumbledore. The Longbottom's were obvious, but they lived in Blackpool... the Macmillan's, possible, but he was yet to see a badger, and the whole clan were bonkers for Hufflepuff. Shacklebolt's… that was more likely, they lived in London, and Kingsley had been one of the Order's most prominent fighters after the Ministry was infiltrated.

Or it could be the wandmaker Ollivander's house, Draco supposed. The elderly wandsmith slept above his shop in Diagon Alley most of the time, but old Garrett was one of several brothers, one of them must have inherited the family home.

It hit Draco all of a sudden that he knew Mr Ollivander slept above his shop, because that was where they had kidnapped him from. In a few weeks from now he realised, with a cold chill. He, Rabastan and Rowle, the day after Draco had been given his mark, had snuck into the upstairs apartment while the shop had still been open. They hid, waiting for the old man to come upstairs. Draco was to do the capturing, an initiation of sorts. So when Ollivander had come into the room, and Draco had stunned and then bound him, it was something of an anti-climax. At the time Draco'd had the distinct impression that Rabastan was disappointed there had been no struggle.

This elf did not seem happy with its lot here though, Draco thought. Which was odd for a servant whose entire breeds' ambition was to tend to their wizarding masters, with exceptions like the lunatic Dobby being very rare. Did this mean the elf, Kreacher, did not like the people in his home? It was this thought that made the name register properly with Draco-

 _Kreacher._

 _The_ Kreacher. The one who lived at the old Black house, the one who'd gone to the Lestrange's to talk to Draco's aunt, the one who'd planted the seed of the plan to capture Potter at the Ministry. The Death Eaters had laughed about it more than once, even after the plan had gone awry. The Order, so unwizarding even house-elves would not be loyal to them.

It was as this revelation sunk in, the revelation that he was not at some average safe house but in the actual Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix that his door banged open.

A furiously indignant, and _young_ , Harry Potter stood there, framed in the doorway and scowling suspiciously at Draco and his breakfast tray. A feminine voice coughed from behind Potter, and there was a lacklustre but pointed knock on his open door.

Potter threw a put-upon look over his shoulder at the knocker - Granger - Draco deduced by the bushy hair he could discern behind Potter now.

"What?" Potter complained to her, "He pushed me through the bloody fire without warning, why can't I open the door?"

Granger sighed. "Not sinking to his level perhaps? Being the better man? I don't know."

Draco could do little but stare, he'd traded his fork for his wand however. These young, or more like undamaged, people were so different to the Granger and Potter he'd seen of late. Granger was grim-faced after the war, at least in public, and their short confrontation in Umbridge's office had been so fraught and fast that the finer details of her appearance hadn't really registered. Potter on the other hand, the papers would happily tell anyone who asked, that he was a man about town. Drinking and parties, Quidditch matches every weekend, and even though Draco couldn't say that he'd ever really known Potter on a personal level, the riotous behaviour seemed like overcompensation to him. Draco knew grief, he knew fear, and he knew what it was like to feel adrift; he saw all of those things in the post-war Potter living it up in London.

"Why did you help us?" Potter asked him then, interrupting Draco's musings. He hadn't moved further into the room, and he still looked on his guard.

"Because Umbridge is unhinged," Draco said plainly.

Potter narrowed his eyes. "And you only just realised that?"

"It only recently became an issue for me," Draco said. He wasn't risking being tripped up by giving Dumbledore and Potter different stories, he'd just leave time traveling chess pieces out of this version for the sake of not looking insane.

Granger elbowed her way into the room then, a sharp determination in her face, Draco knew even before she spoke that she wouldn't be easy to convince. "But you knew about the vision, that it was a fake. That doesn't have anything to do with Umbridge." She paused for breath, and Draco thought she'd do well to become an interrogator for the DMLE, she was quite proficient already, throwing her pointed questions at him fiercely, "How did you know what Voldemort showed Harry?" She finished, her eyebrows high and her lips pursed, as though it was only a matter of time before Draco told her the truth.

Draco's answer came easily, as did his lofty tone. "The Dark Lord and my aunt are quite close"—he gave the pair of them a long suffering look as he continued—"what sort of sneaky Slytherin would I be if I didn't eavesdrop at dinner parties?"

"Bugger that," Potter said, surprisingly roughly, "what are you up to? Whatever it is bloody worked, since you've got yourself in Dumbledore's good graces if you're allowed to stay here, are you spying on us?"

"Well, they won't be very impressed if I am." Draco sighed, actually disappointed that Potter wasn't a bit quicker to think of less obvious solutions. "What could I possibly tell them?" He paused as if trying to compose a secret missive in his head, and then began in his best haughty drawl:

"Dear Death Eaters,

The Order have a house which contains at least one bedroom, in this room there is a very large wardrobe and a slightly musty bed." He noted the neatly tucked covers over his knees and added, "The bedspread is olive, with silver trim. The food's not bad though, love Draco."

Both Potter and Granger just blinked at him, stunned. Apparently sarcasm was the key to being able to finish his breakfast.

"Er," Harry said, "seriously?"

"I've told Dumbledore about my situation, ask him. I'm here because I want to be on the winning side of this war. That is not the side my father has allied us with in the past. It's that simple."

"But why now?" Potter asked, the defensive tone in his voice was fading, and he looked genuinely concerned.

"Do you really think anyone would have believed me if I hadn't just saved your arse?"

"Kicked my arse," Potter muttered, rubbing at his left butt cheek accusingly.

"Your words not mine," Draco replied smugly.

Granger was scrutinising Draco very closely. Potter was just looking mutinous that Draco had bested him in their little battle of words.

It was convenient, Draco thought, to have enemies who held high moral standards. He knew Potter would not do more than glower at him, the idiot didn't even have his wand on Draco anymore. Granger did, though it seemed to be more of a second thought. But with no immediate threat Draco returned to his eggs, which were cooling rapidly. He'd just filled his mouth for the third time in front of his little audience when Granger finally spoke.

"However self-serving your reasons, I'm glad you decided to intervene yesterday," she said earnestly, "We'll leave you alone."

Draco kept his eyes on his plate as they left, he hadn't counted on that, on Granger being openly grateful. _Sodding Gryffindors_. Though he supposed that having Hermione Granger think herself in his debt really wasn't the worst thing in the world.


	9. Chapter Eight: The Order

_Sorry that more than one Monday has passed since I last updated, I hope you are all still reading xx_

* * *

 ** _The Order_**

* * *

Draco managed to fall asleep once he'd filled his belly with breakfast, even with the foreign time and place he slept soundly for most of the day. It was the elf, Kreacher who woke him at dusk.

The long narrow window in his room was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes, and it made him immediately aware of where he was, and the strange situation he was in. The window showed a view of brick wall three feet away from the glass, and when he'd looked out it trying to gauge his location early that morning he'd discerned that the brick wall belonged to the the back of the terraced row behind Grimmauld Place. There was nothing in the alley that ran between the buildings, save a drain and some muggle-looking litter. This did however let Draco know that his room was at the rear of the house, and judging by the distance to the dirty storm drain, probably two floors up, so there was no magical interior extention going on. The window even opened, he'd tried it, just because it never hurt to have an escape plan. But then he supposed that if the Order had wanted to keep him hostage they probably would have taken his wand.

"Mr Malfoy," the elf said, drawing Draco's attention back to him, "Dinner is being served downstairs, would you like me to show you to the kitchen?"

"The kitchen?" Draco repeated in horror, "Do these people expect me to _serve_ them?"

"N-no Mr Malfoy," the elf spluttered, aghast at such an idea, "it's just that Master Sirius insists we do not use the dining room. His _friends_ ," Kreacher managed to infuse the word friends with a heavy amount of distaste, "they eat together at the table in the kitchen."

Draco had the oddest pang of sympathy for the elf. He too found it quite offensive that a proper dining room existed and yet sat disused in favour of eating below stairs, in the elves domain.

"I would prefer a tray in my room," Draco said hopefully.

But the elf twisted his fingers, "I'm sorry Mr Malfoy, _she_ insists, traitorous old cow, she says you are to eat with the household if you are staying here."

"Who is this woman?" Draco asked, imagining some frightening head-of-household frau threatening the elf with her wooden spoon. "She has no right to command me."

"Of course not Mr Malfoy" the elf placated hurriedly, "but If you wish to eat now, please follow me," Kreacher said apologetically, bowing as he retreated to the door.

Draco sighed inwardly, deciding to pick his battles. Dinner with the Order couldn't be worse than dinner with Dung's crew. He stood and glanced at his reflection in the dark window pane, his hand went habitually to his hair to force it back from his forehead, his sixteen year old self had always kept it slicked back, unlike the much less image conscious eighteen year old he had become. The reflection of his pre-war self gave him a little surprise, he looked so healthy, even after a twenty four hour stint like the one he'd just had, the boy looking back at him had colour in his pale cheeks and meat on his bones. He even felt stronger.

Draco smoothed down his sleep rumpled undershirt and took his school uniform button down from where it hung pressed and clean from the wardrobe door handle.

 _Lord,_ how he'd missed house elves _._

Kreacher still stood in the doorway waiting as Draco pulled on his fresh shirt and Draco had the mad urge to thank him. The elf had been such a comfort to him after his ordeal.

"I'm very pleased to have a clean shirt to wear to dinner," he said, as if to himself because a true pure-blood elf would find thanks for his work offensive. "even if it isn't in the dining room"

Kreacher just gave another little bow "Kreacher does his duty to the House of Black." he muttered, confirming Draco's suspicion that the elf craved traditional treatment.

Draco tucked his shirt in, re-fastened his trousers and centered his belt buckle in the dark window, then Kreacher led the way down stairs.

Draco was more nervous than he liked as they reached the small entrance hall, he could hear many voices and the clatter of plates and cutlery being set out in the kitchen beyond. _How many people were here?_ Kreacher did not pause, and Draco found himself lagging behind, he wasn't that hungry was he?

But then the elf pushed open the door and half a dozen faces, including Potter and Granger, turned to look at him. There was a beat of silence, and then Vance, the woman who'd shown him upstairs that morning said, "Draco, good to see you're up and about."

Potter and Granger both gave him cursory nods before moving from the table they'd been setting into the kitchen proper, and the other people milling around all went back to whatever they'd been doing before Draco entered the room.

Draco kept his eyes on Vance, her friendliness seemed genuine. Her dark hair was short and artfully messy and she wore muggle jeans and a t-shirt beneath her open robes.

"I was told you eat together here or not at all." he said, doing his best to sound cordial, and not intimidated by the confrontation of so many people.

Vance nodded, a conspiratorial glint in her eye, "Now that Molly has returned full time so will organisation. It's best to follow the rules."

 _Molly_ Draco thought, the only Molly he could think of was Molly Weasley, but surely she would not wish for Draco's presence at the dinner table; his father and her husband had actually had a stand-up fight in the middle of a bookshop once.

`Granger passed him then carrying a large bowl of salad, and a harassed voice - no doubt belonging to this _Molly -_ called, "Remus to carve please, Sirius, where have you put the sieve?" the voice gave an irritated huff and continued lamenting to the sound of clanging pots and cupboard doors banging open and shut, "Honestly, this kitchen is a disaster!"

Black, who looked nothing like the wanted posters Draco remembered, and the scruffy man Draco recognised as Professor Lupin both sprang into action, they'd been sitting at the far end of the long table talking with their heads together.

"Potatoes to the table!" called the voice and a steaming dish floated out from the work area, nearly colliding with Lupin as he dashed to answer his summons. Potter followed the floating potatoes, skirting Lupin, his hands full of salt and pepper shakers and two jugs of salad dressing. He lifted his eyebrows at Draco as he passed, and gave the potatoes a significant look.

"Pull finger Malfoy," he said, the lack of hostility in Potters expression shocked Draco, so much so that he took the potatoes from the air and delivered them to the table.

Overwhelmed by the flurry of activity Draco found himself being herded into a chair at the table, Vance sat next to him but was too busy having an across the room argument with Black about the location of the mysterious sieve to pay him much attention.

"Weren't you and Remus using it to pan for gold on the terrace last week?" she said loudly in the direction of the kitchen.

Black's head popped out from the work area looking guilty, "Hmm, you may be right." he grimaced back over his shoulder and said, "Sorry Molly, might just have to risk lumpy gravy tonight."

It was then that Draco saw her, it _was_ Molly Weasley. She had an apron on over dated flowery house robes and a wooden spoon and her wand poked out from its deep pocket. She also looked deeply offended. "My gravy is not _lumpy_ , it was merely a precaution," she waggled her finger up into Sirius's face and he seemed to be trying not to laugh, "your flour was looking a bit iffy. I'm sure-"

"'Scuse," Lupin interrupted her, squeezing out between the two of them with a platter of steaming carved roast beef held carefully in his hands.

" _Panning for gold?"_ Draco repeated to himself disbelievingly and was surprised when Vance gave a little chuckle on his left, obviously having heard him.

"They get pretty bored in this place," she explained, "and Sirius reckons his dad buried half his fortune in the garden on the roof terrace, so last week he and Remus dug up all the flower beds up there."

"Did they find anything?" Draco asked, thinking that the rumours about insanity in the Black bloodline were rather well founded.

Vance laughed again, "Nope, the idiots."

Sirius himself sat down opposite them then and frowned across at Vance, "I won't have you sharing my failures with spies thank you."

"I'm no spy," Draco said at once, it was one thing to be accused if he'd been guilty, but of all the things he was, a spy was definitely not one.

"So we hear," Sirius said easily, "still, what will the papers say? Infamous murder Sirius Black whiles away his afternoons sieving dirt? I have an image to uphold."

"Right." said Draco, sitting back in his chair to but a bit more space between Black and himself. Inherited insanity was looking more and more likely.

The rest of the table seemed to find this very funny, even Molly Weasley was smiling as she took a seat at the head of the table.

"Do you know I'm quite surprised they haven't started printing stories about all the terrible things you did at school." Lupin said thoughtfully, as he started doling meat out onto all the nearest plates.

"Things _I_ did?" Black shot back indignantly, "Pot, kettle Moony."

"Yes, but no one is interested in stories about me." Lupin returned lightly, passing the roast tray down to Vance, Draco's mouth began to water as it travelled under his nose, he hadn't had roast in a very long time. "And you really shouldn't use that old saying," Lupin continued, " _everyone_ calls you Black, it's your name. "

Everyone apart from Draco groaned and chuckled at this poor joke, and then Vance spoke up, just as she transferred two thick slices of beef to Draco's plate. "I bet they just can't get anyone to talk about your time at Hogwarts, everyone still thinks you're a murderer, probably afraid you'll turn up and A.K. them in their beds if they sold stories about you."

"I would think that the Ministry wouldn't want to risk making you look human," Hermione spoke up from down the table, "the stories of your misdeeds at school would just remind your fellow students that you had also been good and kind at one point."

Lupin coughed, "Good maybe, in the broadest sense of the word Hermione, but kind? That is not a term anyone would associate with Sirius."

"Bastard," Sirius said to Lupin, but he was grinning,

"Language!" interrupted Mrs Weasley, "there are children present."

Harry and Hermione both rolled their eyes. But Sirius grinned even wider. "Sorry Molly, speaking of, you lot will all be staying here for now. There's no way to get you back into Hogwarts, or no way that doesn't risk blowing Snivellus's cover anyway."

Harry and Hermione looked at each other, then almost in unison asked, "What about Ron?"

"Snape has passed him a letter from Molly, he knows you're safe." Draco watched as both Potter and Granger seemed to visibly relax, it must be exhausting to be so concerned with others welfare, Draco thought as he ploughed through his dinner. Molly Weasley might be coddling and unrefined, but she could certainly cook. Draco dragged his potatoes through definitely not lumpy gravy as Sirius directed his next statement at Mrs Weasley. "I guess he and Ginny will come here too once term finishes?"

Mrs Weasley nodded, "Yes, this is the safest place we have, I'm still trying to convince Fred and George to come but they inist work is more important."

"What are they doing?" Potter asked, Draco noticed his plate was nearly clean, and even as he spoke he was eyeing the remaining carved beef covetously.

Mrs Weasley had obviously picked up on Harry's continuing hunger too, she put more meat and half a dozen roast potatoes on his plate without blinking an eye as she complained, "Their _joke_ shop, throwing their lives away."

"Anyway," Sirius cut in firmly, "there are only two weeks left of term, so you'll not miss much, but you can join me in my training each day," he gave Harry a proud look, "never hurts to learn to fight right?"

Potter's eyes lit up, "Right!" he said, enthusiastically.

"Dumbledore is coming to speak with you again too," Sirius went on, looking at Draco, "he's instructed us that you are to be included in the normal run of things here. Whatever story you spun certainly convinced him."

"I told the truth," Draco said, after swallowing a large mouthful, "I'm not a spy." he repeated again.

"Right, well, your only restrictions are on communications," Black fixed him with a serious expression, "No messages sent, period. If you have anything urgent talk to me or Vance we will see what we can do."

"Fine." Draco said, glaring back for a second, this house, these people, they were only temporary, he just had to hold on until Dumbledore came, then he would know more, and start looking for a way to distance himself from this whole mess. He was concerned that the longer he stayed here the more involved he would become, and he wasn't completely without a conscience, he knew that if these people started to matter to him, if he became too comfortable here it would be much harder to leave them fighting a war he had no desire to be part of.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, with the waistband of his trousers uncomfortably tight Draco was first out of his seat to depart the kitchen. Out in the hall Draco felt the tension leave him as a palpable lightening. He'd made it, sat through the whole meal surrounded by people who thoroughly disliked him and he'd not shown fear, not lost his temper, nothing. Now all he had to do was wait for the meeting with Dumbledore so he could find out if he'd had any luck convincing his Mum and Dad to leave the Dark Lord, it was so hard to plan when he had no idea if he'd be alone or with his family.

"Move it!" came a voice from behind him, and he turned to see Potter and Granger both trying to pass his loitering figure in the narrow hallway.

"You don't tell me what to do," Draco sneered, embarrassed to be caught hovering, it would have been clear to both Potter and Granger that he was at a loss with what to do with himself now.

"Whatever." Potter said as he passed, and Granger followed in silence. She gave him a brief version of the same apraising look she'd fixed him with back in his bedroom after her interrogation of him that morning.

Draco dawdled as he crossed the entrance hall, not wanting to catch up to the Gryffindors who were plodding up the stairs. Ahead of him there were a pair of long dusty black curtains obscuring a part of the wall that seemed an odd place for a window. Draco moved closer, wondering what they could be hiding.

" _Psst_ ," Potter hissed from the top of the staircase before Draco's fingers reached the fabric, and he spared Potter a glance over his shoulder.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Potter called in a carrying whisper. "This house is full of insane stuff, but that, just… don't."

Draco looked past Potter to Granger who was staring at her friend in surprise. They were standing next to a display of decapitated house-elf heads, it was this that made Draco decide to heed Potters warning. If severed heads were left on display, there must be a true horror hidden behind those heavy black drapes.

* * *

 _I still love to hear your thoughts, and I need the motivation this week!_


	10. Chapter Nine: Eavesdropping

_Thanks so much for all the comments, look how you motivated me! xx_

* * *

 ** _Eavesdropping_**

* * *

Lulled off to sleep early by another overly-full stomach Draco was surprised to find himself awake in the wee hours. The old house was quiet around him and for the first time in at least three years, if not more, he felt _safe_. A luxury he'd taken for granted for most of his life, and now he'd slept so deeply after dinner that he was more rested at three a.m. than he usually was after his allotted eight hours.

As he lay there pondering the incongruence of feeling more secure here than in his own home, it crossed his mind that this would be the perfect time to go looking for clues regarding the changes he had made to the timeline. Perhaps his home was not crawling with sycophants like last time. He racked his brain for ways that he could discover the changes he had made, details he remembered from the past that might be altered. The newspaper was an obvious source, and he vividly remembered the headline in _The Prophet_ the day after they finished exams. It had been a full page block-letter proclamation of Voldemort's return. Draco could still recall the squawks and horrified gasps perforating the usual humdrum in the Great Hall during breakfast as students opened their morning editions.

Lupin and Black had been looking at the paper last night in the kitchen, Draco remembered, perhaps it was still there? Before he could change his mind, Draco swung his feet out of bed decisively. He was not normally the adventuring type, but then he was not normally the wake up in the body of his former self type either, so acting a bit less like his usual cautious self was probably necessary.

The part of him that was still the pampered fifteen-year-old he had been was pleased to find that Kreacher had left him a pair of corduroy carpet slippers set neatly beside the bed. He slipped his feet in, and felt a swell of gratitude somewhere deep inside, it gave him the urge to do something _nice_ for the elf. He shook himself mentally, clearly the shock of being looked after, after fending for himself for so long was really affecting his conscience. Draco'd thought more about this one house elf's well-being than possibly anybody other than himself in a very long time. It was a very weird feeling.

He crept quietly from his room, squashing down this sudden Granger-esque attitude as he went. He did a double take when he turned the handle of his door and found it unlocked, he had to keep reminding himself he wasn't a prisoner in this place. The old house was very creepy in the dark, the portraits muttered as he passed and every single floor board seemed to squeak, no matter how carefully he placed his slippered feet.

Down the corridor, just before the landing a door stood open. Draco peered in, there was a bedside lamp burning on a stand between empty twin beds. One of them was perfectly made, obviously not in use, while the other was crumpled beyond reasonable sleep shuffling. The covers were in a heap on the floor and the sheets were a twisted shambles. It looked as though someone had just had a violent nightmare, or an excellent shag. Either way, whoever slept in the bed was nowhere to be seen.

Draco continued on through the house, down towards the kitchen. He swore he could hear snoring coming from behind the mysterious curtains in the entryway, but resisted the temptation to have a look behind them. Potter's sincere wide eyes when he'd warned him to steer clear seemed too honest to ignore. After all, when a Gryffindor warns something is too dangerous it must be nothing short of life threatening.

The passage to the kitchen was lit, which Draco found odd, since none of the rest of the house was, it made him hesitate, and the moment he paused, uncertain about barging into the kitchen if someone else was in there he heard voices. Quiet murmuring of no more than two people Draco guessed. He'd done his fair share of listening at doorways in his life and was something of an expert.

He edged nearer to the door jam and could see a man sitting at the kitchen table, his bare back hunched a little as he rested his elbows on the table top. The dirty bluish ink symbols on his left shoulder made Draco realise it was Black. He knew those symbols; the body he'd occupied until thirty hours ago bore similar. It was the mark of inmate identification, branded on by the Dementors of Azkaban.

Draco's mind's-eye was flooded with unpleasant recollections as he looked at Black's marred skin: the line of convicts cowering in the arctic wind whipping in from the North Sea, the pallid goose-pimpled skin of the prisoner ahead of him in the line as they were all told to strip by a Ministry guard. Then, the stench of burning flesh and the cries of pain as the Dementors swooped along behind the shivering people, pausing to press their cursed brand into each shoulder.

It was Potter's low voice that brought Draco out of his traumatised reminiscing.

"He obviously doesn't know I'm with here with you, or he'd have tried a different vision to get me to go."

Draco looked a little further into the room, and could see Potter sitting opposite Black, he wore a white undershirt and his hands cradled a mug whose contents were sending faint spirals of steam into the air.

"I guess that means the kid isn't a spy at least." Sirius replied, after taking a drink from his own mug.

Potter's face was slightly scrunched, as though he was unsure how to phrase his next question. Eventually he said, "Why does he want this prophecy so badly anyway?"

Sirius shook his head slowly, "Molly will kill me if I tell you that, Harry."

"You're my guardian, not her." Harry muttered petulantly. Draco didn't blame him. What say did Molly Weasley have in Harry's upbringing? Harry didn't give up, "Do _you_ think I'll be safer if I know what's going on?"

"Of course you will be," Sirius said, a touch of impatience entering his voice, "but-"

"Then tell me," Harry interrupted, "I'm not some helpless little baby, Sirius."

There was a loud sigh from Sirius before he said, "It's not just Molly, James would want you to know. I'm a hundred percent on that, but your mum… she's the one who managed to keep you alive, and I'm bound by what she'd want as much as what James would. This is hard for me too kid."

Draco watched as Harry's face drew in pinched with guilt, and he said sheepishly, "Well why didn't you tell me that? Bloody hell. I can't win can I?"

Sirius gave a little chuckle. "I've been thinking about this on and off all year. Lily was a scholar, she loved learning as much as your mad friend, bit less of a sticker for the rules thankfully. But I really think she'd want you to understand as much as possible, as much as you're ready to about what happened back in eighty-one."

"Really?" Potter's surprise was obvious.

"I don't know everything," Sirius warned, "but Dumbledore does. I've convinced him to tell you. He'll be coming sometime this week."

"Does Mrs Weasley know?" Harry asked, apprehensive and a bit amused at the same time.

"Not yet…" Sirius replied, sounding a little sheepish himself, "I thought I'd let her argue the point with Dumbles instead of me for a change."

"Chicken." Harry grinned.

"Cluck cluck." Sirius deadpanned.

Harry snorted a laugh and then said quietly, "Thanks for this, I've never had anyone to talk to after my nightmares."

"Don't guilt me now." Sirius murmured.

"Sorry," Harry said, contrite at once, "I didn't mean too. Just," he gave a little self-conscious shrug, "it's nice."

"Kid, if there is anyone that understands nightmares it's me," Sirius said, patting his godson's forearm across the table, "batshit crazy family all around, then ol' Azzy and the Dementors, I can't remember the last time I slept all night without some kind of disturbing interruption."

Rather than make Harry look relieved or comforted, this statement caused a funny sort of slyness to cross his face, "Doesn't that bother Remus?"

Sirius withdrew his hand from Harry's arm as he huffed out a little laugh, "I wondered when you were going to ask about that." he sat back in his chair, a clear indication for Harry to ask away.

"Are you like … a couple?" Harry began, faltering only slightly, "Or do you just, er … share a bed?"

"Couple." Sirius confirmed, "well, we don't advertise it. it's best to keep the important things private in a climate like this. Spies, Snape ... there are people who'd want to use it against us."

"But you're ... _gay_?" Harry asked uncomfortably.

"That's what it called when you prefer men, yes." Sirius replied bluntly.

Harry frowned down at his mug for a moment, and Draco couldn't blame him for being a bit shocked. Homosexuality was something of a taboo among the old families because it was seen as a hindrance to the magical birth rate. No one really mentioned it though, and it was a surprise for Draco to hear someone, a Pureblooded someone, even if he was about as Bloodtraitor-y as it was possible to be, declare himself to be gay quite so baldly. But then Potter spoke, drawing Draco's attention once more.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Apparently this was not a question Sirius was expecting, "How is it relevant?" he asked, genuinely taken aback.

"Umm-" Potter hummed incredulously as his eyebrows tented across his forehead, "it just is."

"Not really." Sirius disagreed, "Me and Moony had a lot of shit to work out, we've only been together since last summer."

"A whole year?" Potter said loudly, he looked a bit hurt now.

"You don't tell me about your love life," Sirius said defensively.

"There's nothing to tell." Harry muttered, his cheeks colouring as he looked away, Draco shrank back into the shadows in case those green eyes turned in his direction.

"Or whether you like girls or boys." Sirius continued, "I was just following your lead."

"Girls I guess." Harry admitted, his eyes flicking back to Sirius for a second, his ears and neck were red now too.

"You guess?" Sirius repeated, all teasing was gone from his voice now.

"No, definitely, but I've only kissed one," Harry said, flustered, "and it wasn't very nice, she was crying."

"Oh. Well, I can see how that would be off putting."

They were both quiet for a moment and the silence was definitely awkward. Draco thought he should probably leave but was far too invested, he'd always found eavesdropping somewhat addicting.

"I'm going to bed now." Harry said abruptly, as he stood up. His chair grated noisily as he pushed it back and his face was still a bit pink.

"Good call." Sirius said. He stood too and reached out to clap Harry's shoulder, "I'm happy keep our midnight chats to death and depressing bollocks from now on if you want."

Harry grinned, and Draco suddenly realised that he would be discovered here if he didn't move it.


	11. Chapter Ten: Potter

_I just wanted to address the multiple complaints I received after the last chapter- apparently I need to post a warning before something as scandalous as a conversation about sexual orientation. It didn't even cross my mind that a warning would be necessary because I live in a world where it doesn't matter who you love, so long as you're happy- its quite lovely. You haters should come visit one day._

* * *

 ** _Chapter Ten: Potter_**

* * *

As quickly as he could Draco retraced his steps back up through the house, the sound of Potter and Black exiting the kitchen hurried him along. He shut his bedroom door quietly and listened carefully to the footsteps ascending the staircase in his wake.

Potter must be in the room Draco had passed on his way down, because he heard a door shut softly no far from his own. He wondered if Granger slept on this floor as well. The house must sleep a lot of people, if Vance, and Mrs Weasley were both here somewhere, and they were soon to be accommodating half the Weasley brood. Not to mention Lupin, who slept here too, though apparently he shared with Black. That was interesting. Draco never would have picked either of them as queer.

Another set of footsteps, Black's no doubt, came up the stairs while Draco listened, his ear pressed against the door., When he could hear him climbing the staircase to the next floor Draco snuck back down the corridor, down the stairs and into the kitchen.

The room had been tidied since Draco had sped from his place at the dinner table, and the newspaper was nowhere to be seen. But the house elves at the Manor always kept the paper, there had been a stack of them in the larder, for what purpose Draco wasn't sure. He also had no idea which was the larder in the wall of cabinets in this kitchen, or if all house elves kept newspapers. Perhaps the Manor ones were just hoarders. But he started to look anyway.

Draco pulled open cupboard after cupboard, wincing as the ancient hinges squeaked with every movement, the sound so loud in the stillness of the house. He had no luck with the ones beneath bench, and in the high ones above the kettle he only found shelves crammed full of mugs, some stacked precariously on the bottom layer, just waiting to fall on the head of an unsuspecting snooper, like a half-hearted but effective booby trap. After re-balancing the mug that had just tried to knock him out back among its fellows, Draco turned in search of a new place to look.

At the end of the room, behind the rack of hanging copper pots was a tall, promising looking door. He crossed to it quickly and pulled it open to discover a dilapidated oversized water cylinder, the ceiling in the cupboard was stained with the flowery lines of long-ago leaks and the pipes attached to the water heater itself were held together with liberal amounts of spellotape. Draco wrinkled his nose, this house was such a shithole.

But the boiler cupboard was warm and dry, and there were linens folded neatly on the narrow shelves slotted down the length of the water cylinder. Draco only just registered this before a sudden movement at his feet distracted him. Kreacher the house elf had scrambled out of the cupboard and was bowing deeply at Dracos cordery covered toes.

"Mr Malfoy," Kreacher said groggily to the floor, "you require something?"

This was the first time Draco had ever seen evidence that house elves slept, it was not something he'd considered before, but it was quite clear that he had disturbed Kreacher's sleeping place. He also realised with an internal grimace that he could have just summoned the elf to get him the paper, rather than sneaking about in the night. This place was definitely messing with him.

"Today's paper." Draco said shortly to Kreacher, annoyed at himself.

"Yes sir, yes, I have it." the elf ducked back under the boiler and Draco crouched down to see a little nest of old blankets, a grim place to sleep he thought, but at least dry and warm. It made him wonder where the elves at the Manor slept.

As Kreacher fossicked around in his little burrow Draco noticed that it wasn't just blankets that filled the space. There were trinkets and expensive looking jewelry, even a pair of voluminous silk drawers tucked into one corner. A photograph jumped out at him, his mother and Aunt Bellatrix on what looked to be Bella's wedding day, Draco could not think of any other reason for his aunt to be wearing white, it seemed to clash with the dark quality she emanated even in this old photograph.

There was a dog-eared book propped next to the photos, it was open and the pages Draco could see were filled with a neat personal hand. Perplexed, because he was sure house elves could not write Draco reached out and plucked the book from the makeshift shrine.

"No," Kreacher said, appearing once more.

Draco lifted an eyebrow at the elf, "No?" he flipped a few pages in confusion, "You can write?" he asked.

"Kreacher can not write," the elf whispered, twisting his hands and moving uncomfortably from foot to foot, "That journal, it is not Kreacher's."

Draco flicked the age-yellowed pages back to the start, and looked inside the front cover. He recognised the name inscribed there, and he read it aloud, "Regulus Black."

 _The lost heir,_ Draco remembered. His mother had known Regulus, Draco knew this because he'd nearly been named after him. Regulus had been a Death Eater, he'd joined fresh out of school but then vanished not long before Draco was born. At the time Lucius had said it was bad luck to name a child after someone who'd died young, but Draco had learnt later that his father hadn't wanted him named after a coward. Regulus had been something of a pet to Narcissa, her little cousin whom she doted on. What ever Lucius said about him Draco knew that his mother was incredibly fond of the boy.

"Please Mr Malfoy," Kreacher pleaded, "do not tell Master Sirius, Master Regulus carried that book with him everywhere before … before he left. I only want to keep it safe."

Draco turned the page to see what was clearly a diary.

 _This journal contains a collection of vaguely disturbing nonsense –_

 _the personal observations of Regulus Arcturus Black_

 _I begin this journal under the strict instruction (and well-aimed wand) of Mr Svig, a man who tells people, (namely my father) that he is some kind of personal motivator, adept at transforming those like myself; reserved, dignified, and cautious, or as he puts it; shy, diffident, and suspicious, into what he deems, "Proper Men."_

 _May Merlin have mercy on my (apparently "improper") soul._

"You read your master's private journal?" Draco asked, a little shocked, but wanting to smile at the pompous tone of this opening paragraph.

"No, Kreacher can not read." the elf confirmed, "I just wanted to stop Master Sirius from destroying it. Master Regulus was a good boy, a brave boy. please Mr Malfoy, I meant no disrespect. Here is your paper," he added, holding the edition of _The Daily Prophet_ out to him.

Draco took it without looking at the front page and tucked it under his arm. It was then that he noticed Kreacher's long fingered hand was still extended, as though he wished to get something in return. His eyes were firmly fixed on the diary still held in Draco's left hand.

Draco didn't know why but this diary fascinated him, he wanted to read everything the young Regulus had written. On the surface it seemed the pair of them had much in common; heirs to old houses, taking the mark young, having second thoughts when faced with the reality of serving the Dark Lord. Draco definitely wanted to know if this Regulus his mother had doted on thought the same things he, Draco, had.

"Thanks for the paper." he said absently to Kreacher before he turned to leave the room.

The old elf twitched as he said tentatively, "Mr Malfoy, I would see the diary back in the cupboard? It needs to stay out of Master Sirius's sight."

"I'm only borrowing it," Draco assured him, "your Master Regulus was a good friend of my mothers, I'd like to know more about him."

"As you wish, Mr Malfoy," the elf said in a wavering voice, his bloodshot eyes had become shiny with tears, "please do not let Master Sirius see it."

"I will keep it safe." Draco promised. The elf's emotional reaction tugged at something inside him and Draco sought to make him feel a little better. "I would think Regulus would be happy to know another loyal member of his family was reading the things he recorded here, perhaps learning from his wisdom?"

Kreacher nodded, but did not look appeased even as he said, "Yes, he would, you are right of course Mr Malfoy."

Draco left Kreacher in the kitchen and hurried back up to the second floor. He was eager to comb the paper for any mention of a disruption at the Department of Mysteries last night. He was halfway across the landing when a door on his left opened, the sound of rushing water reached his ears and then was muffled as the door shut and Draco found himself face to face with Potter.

"What are you doing up?" Draco said at once, attempting to hide his pilfered reading material behind his back.

Potter gave him a disbelieving look, then glanced at the bathroom door then back at Draco, "Taking a piss," he said, rubbing at his face tiredly, "what does it look like?"

"I-" Draco faltered, it was rather obvious now that Potter pointed it out.

"What are you doing up then?" Potter asked, suspicion entering his voice as his drowsy expression faded.

"Nothing," Draco said quickly, and probably a little guiltily, "I couldn't sleep so I wanted to get something to read." He showed Harry the paper.

"Oh, " Harry said, losing interest at the boring excuse, "there's a library upstairs, get Hermione to show you tomorrow."

"Because Granger and I are such good mates." Draco muttered, did Potter really think he could just go and ask Hermione for a tour of the house, and that it wouldn't be the weirdest, most uncomfortable thing ever?

Potter shrugged, as if he could read Draco's mind, "She's not a grudge holder, if you tell her you want books she'll definitely be nice to you."

"And why are you being nice to me?" Draco couldn't help but ask.

"Am I?" Harry asked, but seemed to give the question proper consideration. "I don't know what to make of you." he said after a moment, "But it's about three in the morning and I'm way too tired to keep up my usual level of witty verbal barbs." He gave Draco a tired little smile as he said this and Draco could to naught but stare.

Potter smiling at him was a hundred kinds of wrong. But he was unable to prevent the tiny nervous laugh that snuck out. "You're weird Potter."

Harry just nodded to himself as he went into his room, pausing before he shut the door to say, "Night."

This strange conversation only distracted Draco briefly and within minutes he was sitting cross legged on his bed with _The Daily Prophet_ laid out in front of him.

 ** _Trespassers Apprehended in the Department of Mysteries._**

Draco's stomach sank as he stared at the the headline. It hadn't worked, for all he'd tried, it hadn't worked.

 _Kingsley Shacklebolt, one of the Ministry's most respected Aurors was first on the scene of a most disturbing discovery last night. Acting on a confidential tip-off Shacklebolt lead a team of Aurors and Unspeakables into the little-known Department of Mysteries at 7pm. This reporter has been unable to obtain further details about what followed, but at 830pm Shacklebolt and his team emerged bringing with them six men and one woman all shackled who were immediately taken to Azkaban for holding while they await trial. The names of the Trespass Seven are yet to be released._


	12. Chapter Eleven: Granger

_Gasp! I'm back! You all thought I'd abandoned this, didn't you?_

 _A very big thanks to_ _ **SableUnstable**_ _for her help on this one. Just wait til you see the new story she's been working on. Seriously, it's freaking brilliant._

* * *

 _Chapter Eleven:_ _ **Granger**_

* * *

Draco was not ready to get up when someone knocked loudly on his door the following morning. It was as though the discovery of his failure in regards to his father's imprisonment had intensified overnight, and was now pinning him to his bed, pressing heavily on him so he could barely breathe. He wasn't aware of even falling asleep – the last thing he remembered clearly was wiping a frustrated tear from his cheek as he hurled the newspaper across the room.

"Draco?" a female voice called through the door.

It was probably Vance, Draco decided as he rolled over and pulled the bedspread higher over his head. She was the only person in the house that called him by his given name.

"There's breakfast in the kitchen," she continued, "then you're to join us for calisthenics in the drawing room."

 _Calisthenics?_ Draco thought blearily. _Seriously?_

"Come on, up," she urged him with another knock on the door. "Or I'll get Molly up here."

"Okay, okay," Draco called back, flinging the covers off himself grumpily. "I'm up." He was not going to suffer the indignity of Molly Weasley hauling him out of bed while he was dressed in nothing but his smalls.

The kitchen was empty when Draco entered five minutes later, dressed in his uniform once more. He was really getting sick of wearing the same clothes every day. But at least Kreacher had taken it upon himself to whisk the shirt and trousers away in the night and return them clean in the morning. Draco was sure his underwear, which had been doubling as pajamas, would need to be burned when his trunk was finally liberated from Hogwarts.

Kreacher, as though summoned by Draco's grateful thoughts of him, appeared almost instantly at his side as he headed toward the long wooden table.

"Would Mr Malfoy like coffee or tea with his breakfast this morning?" the elf asked quickly in his croaky, aged voice. "There is porridge and toast to eat, or would you like Kreacher to make you something else?"

"Tea," replied Draco, "and no, porridge will be fine, with brown sugar?"

"Of course, sir, of course." Kreacher scurried away just as there was a disgruntled noise from the doorway behind Draco. He turned to see Black leaning against the door frame wearing sweats and an old t-shirt.

"Grubbing little twit," he muttered, his eyes following Kreacher's path into the kitchen proper. "He won't do anything for me except try and get my godson killed."

"I haven't asked anything of him," Draco mumbled. "He, er, knows my mum."

Black's face darkened. "I'm aware," he said shortly.

Draco grimaced, but mentioning his mother had a question forming on his lips. "Do you know when Dumbledore will be coming to talk to me yet?"

"Tomorrow," Sirius replied as he produced a bundle of material and put it on the table next to the place Kreacher was now setting for Draco. "Those are for training," he said, indicating what Draco now recognised as sweatpants and t-shirt similar to those Sirius himself wore. "Dumbledore and Snape have organised your trunk, so you'll have your own gear back tomorow."

"Oh good," Draco said, genuinely pleased about that. He felt slightly less agitated by the whole situation as he took the chair Kreacher had pulled out for him.

"Dumbledore was quite cryptic about you," Sirius went on, seating himself opposite Draco without invitation and pouring coffee from the pot on the table. "But he told me that you might be able to offer us some..." he paused, his expression cautious, the coffee pot suspended in midair above his mug, then he found the word he was looking for and finished with a loaded inflection, "...perspective."

 _Perspective_? Draco thought. _What was Black getting at?_ He held eye contact with Sirius across the table, uncertain about his next move. It sounded as though Dumbledore wasn't keeping Draco's true origins a secret, which was surprising.

"I don't see how I can," Draco said eventually, deciding to stick to his previous decision. He would not lie, but he wouldn't help either. "I'm not joining up with your mad Phoenix lot, and things are already so different from how I remember them." Black frowned, obviously not following, so Draco elaborated briefly, sticking to the most glaring differences between now and the time he remembered. "The Dark Lord is still in hiding and you're not dead, so I don't see what perspective I can offer."

Black didn't look any less perplexed. There were heavy lines across his brow as he leaned forward in his chair to ask, "what do you mean, I'm not dead?"

"As in you never went to the Ministry," Draco said a little shortly, surprised that Black didn't get it; he was the one who asked after all. "So Bellatrix never killed you. At least that's the way I remember it happening."

Black's eyes went wide at that statement, complete concerned confusion all over his face. "The way you remember it?" His voice had gone weirdly high-pitched. "Malfoy, what are you talking about?"

"You said Dumbledore told you. He said that I could offer…" Draco trailed off, a heavy foreboding leached through him as he realised he'd just given the game away, quite unnecessarily.

Black's reaction was the opposite of Draco's sudden withdrawal. He was half out of his chair, leaning across the table to get Draco's attention; attention that was focused solely on the tea Kreacher had just delivered to him. Draco stared at it, furious with himself as Black spoke urgently, "you remember this? You're a seer? Or… or time travel?"

 _What did it matter?_ Draco thought glumly, kicking himself. He'd already admitted the truth, hadn't he? If he refused to answer now, things would just get worse. "Er…" he began reluctantly, "time travel, I think. I've lived this war already; I woke up in the middle of my exam. I was eighteen the day before yesterday."

Sirius gaped at him silently for a moment. "But how? I didn't know magic allowed time travel for more than twenty-four hours."

"Neither," Draco shrugged, "it was an accident. This old bloke…" he shook his head; that was far too complicated a story to tell right now. "Never mind."

"So what do you know?" Black asked, lowering his voice a little. "Are you going to help us corner Voldemort? You have too! We'll be at such an advantage over them, you-"

"No," Draco interrupted flatly, "I'm not. The events of the Death Eaters ambush played out quite differently in my memory. The Dark Lord was forced to move into the open, it was the beginning of the full-scale war. Now… nothing is the same. I'll not be any use." There was a weird sort of disappointment settling in Draco's stomach as he realised the truth of that statement.

But Black was oblivious. "Why were they different?" he asked in an eager tone. "What changed…" trailing off thoughtfully, he all of a sudden seemed to come to a conclusion. " _YOU!_ " he crowed, making Draco wince at the unexpected volume. "This is why you helped Harry, isn't it? How you knew Voldemort didn't have me, but-" Sirius's grey eyes widened and Draco could see all the questions building there, waring for the right to be asked first. It struck him that his own eyes were clearly inherited from his mother's side; the bluish grey gaze piercing him could have come from a mirror. "How long have you been here?"

 _That was what he wanted to know?_ Well at least Draco could answer that. "Since about ten minutes before Potter fell off his chair in our History of Magic exam."

"And where did you come from?" Sirius prompted.

"Diagon Alley." Draco was studying his tea cup again and completely regretting getting out of bed.

"Alright, _when_ did you come from?" Sirius frustratedly corrected himself.

"February, in ninety-nine." Draco sighed, praying for some sort of interruption; wasn't this house full of people? Where were they when he needed them?

"And?" Black demanded, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. His hands were out, extended a little way towards Draco, as though he was going to grab his shoulders and shake the answers from him.

"And what?" Draco asked coolly, leaning back in his chair again, just to make sure he was quite out of reach.

" _And_ ," Black said with another frustrated huff, "is the war over? Who won? Who did our side lose? Harry, is he okay? Bloody hell, Malfoy! You must realise that you could be the way to a quick finish of this thing." The frustration on Black's face looked a lot more like desperation as he finished speaking, and even though Draco didn't want to talk about this, and definitely didn't agree that he was the key to winning the war, the last year of his life had made him far too familiar with the rashness desperation could cause.

"No, I can't," Draco said again, more calmly than before. Desperate people were unpredictable, and since he didn't fancy getting hexed before he'd even eaten his breakfast, he tried to sound reasonable. "You're not listening to me. The way I remember it, Potter and Dumbledore fought the Dark Lord at the Ministry two nights ago. The Dark Lord was forced to move into the open after half the Ministry staff saw him, and Potter and Dumbledore became heroes _again_."

"Oh," Black said hollowly. He definitely seemed to understand now.

A bleak silence filled the kitchen and Draco distracted himself with several mouthfuls of his just delivered porridge. It wasn't that he wanted the Dark Lord to win; he really didn't. But Draco knew much more about himself now, and one of his greatest flaws was that he wasn't very good under pressure. Sure, a mad, spur of the moment idea like trying to stop his father going to jail was one thing – no one knew that he'd failed at that, so the pressure wasn't too bad – but having the whole fate of this war rest on him, on his knowledge of things to come? Absolutely not. Draco would lose his mind.

Suddenly the interruption Draco had been wishing for finally came, albeit too late. Vance bounded through the door dressed similarly to Sirius, although she wore a neon pink sweatband around her forehead which made her dark spikey hair look like a miniature bearskin.

She gave Draco's half-empty bowl of porridge a significant look, then said to him, "you might regret your breakfast choice when we're half way through wind sprints."

Draco felt his eyes bug out a little. _Wind sprints?_ Maybe this was a prison after all.

* * *

An hour, or possibly a year later, Draco lay flat on his back in the middle of the drawing room, his chest heaving and his thighs burning. Potter, Granger, and Black were dotted around the room too, in similar states of collapse, although Black seemed to be coping slightly better. During the last sixty minutes they had done jumping jacks, toe touches, and pushups. They had then sprinted back and forth across the room more times than Draco cared to count, all while the cheerful Vance led them with encouraging nonsense like, " _just one more!"_ and " _you can do it!"_ How she had breath to talk Draco couldn't understand, because she kept up the whole way, even sprinting faster and jumping higher than the rest of them.

"Why," Draco huffed when Vance loomed over him, holding her hand out to help him sit, "must I be included in this torture?"

"Because you're a shut-in," she said succinctly. "Sirius does this every day I'm here, it helps keep the boredom away, and now you and Harry and Hermione a trapped here for at least another few weeks. You'll need the exercise too."

"I thought," Potter piped up from the other side of the room, sounding just as breathless as Draco was, "that we were learning to fight, not entering the sodding olympics."

"Not much use in a duel if you can't move quickly," Sirius put in, grinning at Harry before wiping his sweaty face on sleeve of his t-shirt. "Are you seriously saying you can't keep up with me? I'm an old man!"

* * *

After a wash and more food – Draco was sure he'd never been fed quite this frequently in his life – he decided to go looking for the library Potter had mentioned during their midnight encounter on the landing.

It wasn't hard to find. At the top of the flight of stairs to the third floor there was a set of double doors that stood open, revealing a small but well-stocked library room. There wasn't much on that level of the house. Instead of a landing or hallway there was a narrow balcony-type walkway that led away from the library doors and along a wall lined with more grim looking portraits. At the other end of the balcony there was a short flight of four stairs that gave access to a tiny landing with two doors opening off it.

Even from where Draco stood outside the library he could read the nameplate on the door that faced him across the open space. _Sirius O. Black_ was daubed in curly silver calligraphy. Then beneath that, a bright red slogan was graffitied in big block letters: _S.O.B – Son of a BITCH._

"Harry said you were looking for something to read." Granger's voice startled Draco from an unseen corner of the library. He whipped back around just as her head popped up from behind a small set of freestanding shelves, like a bushy jack-in-the-box.

"I was," Draco said, wondering if Potter had also told her that he'd suggested Draco ask Hermione for a tour. The lunatic. With this in mind he added, "but I'm quite capable of finding something myself."

"I'm sure you are," Granger replied loftily, returning to the large book Draco could now see propped open against the bookshelf she'd been hiding behind. "I'll not bother you."

Relieved that she wasn't going to enforce her company on him, Draco entered the room properly. He was very conscious of her presence as he moved along the shelves, not really knowing what he was looking for, or what he expected to find. This was the Black house; he wouldn't have been surprised if this library contained instruction manuals for dissecting muggle-borns, or a guide to demolishing muggle villages using dragons and/or chimeras. The Blacks were famous among purebloods for having a deranged viewpoint on magical supremacy.

"That's all nonfiction over there," Granger said from behind him, apparently unable to keep her promise of silence. "But there is a whole section of novels on those shelves behind the desk, and some really brilliant biographies by the window."

"I thought you weren't going to bother me?" Draco turned as he said this, just in time to see Granger purse her lips and give him that same appraising look she seemed to pin him with every time they spoke.

"Why did you warn us?" she asked suddenly, as if trying to surprise him into answering. She continued, rapid-fire. "Why are you here, being kept safe? Why does Dumbledore trust you to live in the Order of the Phoenix's headquarters?"

Draco blinked once, slightly overwhelmed by the direct tactics; everyone else seemed to be tiptoeing around the subject. But he wasn't a novice. He took a breath to ensure he sounded completely unruffled and replied, "you'll have to ask Dumbledore that."

Unfortunately, Hermione was not deterred. She crossed her arms and glared at him. "I'm asking you."

Draco seriously debated turning around and leaving the library, but he had a feeling she would just follow him. "Look, Granger," he said, trying his best to sound like his old drawling self. "I've already told you once. I thought you were supposed to be the clever one?"

"Information is best absorbed with repetition," she said haughtily. "But you're clearly different. You haven't called me mudblood once, and you're polite most of the time, even to Mrs Weasley. I just want to know why."

"Because it makes my life easier," Draco admitted. Since snark didn't seem to be working, maybe she would leave him alone if he told her a partial truth. "I don't fancy getting punched by Potter for calling you mudblood, or having my food privileges revoked because I was rude to the housekeeper… that is what she does here, right? Like a human elf?"

"That's more like you," Granger said. "But for the record, if you call me mudblood I'll punch you myself. I think you'll remember I've done it before?"

"Like a true muggle," Draco muttered.

"Absolutely," Granger replied, lifting her chin proudly. "But you're not answering the question; why are you acting so differently?"

"I did answer that. Listen, would you?" Draco ground out before repeating himself. "Because it makes my life easier."

"It's easier to defy Voldemort and have to be protected by people you hate?" Granger clearly did not think much of his answer. "I don't think so."

"Maybe I grew up!" Draco snapped before he could stop himself. "Maybe I realised there are more important things than blood status and this pointless war!"

Granger took a step closer. Her eyes were still narrowed as if she didn't believe a word. "Like what?" she challenged him.

Draco seemed to have lost control of his own mouth; the real truth poured out unchecked. "Like staying alive; like protecting my family; like remaining independent."

Granger appeared to have no reply to that. She stared at him for a long moment, appraising once more. Eventually she said with slight suspicion, "That almost sounded like the truth."

"It's your lucky day," Draco sneered. His hands had balled themselves into fists at his sides. _Fuck this stupid house and its stupid inhabitants_. It had been a bad day; both Granger and Black had managed to get him to reveal much more than he had planned to.

He left the library in a dark mood, without a book, and with the conversation with Granger playing over and over in his head. Returning to his bedroom didn't make him feel any better. The first thing he saw was the crumpled newspaper from the night before. It was in a messy heap on the floor, its pages disarranged from where it had hit the wall when Draco had thrown it across the room in disappointment.

He ignored it, falling with a dispirited thump face down on his bed. It was then that he remembered the other thing he'd bought back from the kitchen the night before, and he slid his hand beneath his pillow to remove the diary that had once belonged to Regulus Black.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Regulus's Diary, Part 1

_Woohoo! Back to weekly updates!_

 _Here is the first part of Regulus's Journal, there are three parts, which will be spaced between chapters of Draco's ongoing adventure at Grimmauld Place._

 _I've never written first person before, or anything like 'diary style' so I'd love to hear your thoughts._

 _Mrs J xx_

* * *

 _This journal contains a collection of vaguely disturbing nonsense – the personal observations of Regulus Arcturus Black._

I begin this journal under the strict instruction (and well-aimed wand) of Mr Svig, a man who tells people (namely my father) that he is some kind of personal motivator, adept at transforming those like myself – reserved, dignified, and cautious, or as he puts it, shy, diffident, and suspicious – into what he deems "proper men."

Merlin have mercy on my (apparently 'improper') soul.

Mr Svig can thank his employment on my dear brother, who has officially scarpered off to sew his wild oats with muggles and fight against everything we have been raised to believe.

And yet I'm the one requiring special motivational tutelage?

But it is due to Sirius being disinherited, not only in threats and holes in tapestries, but in the irreversible medium of _The Daily Prophet's_ Life and Style section, that I am now publically the sole heir to the House of Black.

I suppose I should be grateful that the story was not confirmed until now. That I must only endure my seventh year at school under this brightly lumosed star. I shall have to farewell the anonymity that I've cultivated these last six years: what a waste. I wonder if my house-mates will start referring to me by name instead of 'Seeker'… that would be disappointing, I quite like being Seeker, as it's a title I actually earned. Unlike the ludicrousness of being the newly promoted heir.

Mr Svig tells me that by recording my thoughts and goals in a journal, I will be able to build upon them methodically until I am able to achieve the desired level of determination and strength of character he and my father deem necessary for my new place in the family. I did not point out to Mr Svig that I already possess these traits, I just use them for my own gain, and one can gain much more if no one suspects you of trying. The aptly named 'snake in the grass' as it were. However, I _did_ point out to Mr Svig that he is a fraudulent shit salesman. He did not share this opinion of his 'trade'.

The reason my father is so concerned about my lack of spirit is that he seems to think that to successfully lead a family such as ours, one must be obtusely opinionated, to the point where anyone who disagrees with you is immediately shouted down. _A proud family head will lord it over every lesser wizard, will be feared,_ et cetera, et cetera.

How my father was ever sorted into Slytherin, I will never understand. He would never have survived the common room these days. The only reason our family is still financially and socially stable is thanks to Mother. She, at least, has enough grace and decorum to smooth my father's mistakes. I believe half the town is under the impression that he suffers from episodes of manic behaviour due to an old curse wound he sustained during the uprising back in '44. (The fact that my father never saw a day of battle in the Continental War doesn't seem to be a factor in this story.)

This concludes my first entry into what I'm predicting will be a litany of complaints, mediocre gossip and the occasional shrewd deduction. I would dearly love to fill this journal with interesting and witty anecdotes, but in all honesty I've yet to meet anyone interesting enough to tell a witty anecdote about. Perhaps this will be my year.

* * *

 _ **Still summer**_

I'm beginning to see what my first term in seventh year is going to be like. Last night began as nothing more than a routine dinner for thirty in the upstairs dining room. But as I looked around the table I realised what it really was; a cattle call. Nine couples of my parents' generation, ten daughters of mine, and oddly one son… on the off chance I'd inherited Alphard's inclinations, no doubt. Ironically it was Matthew Mackinnon I spent most of the evening talking to, very nice chap, a bit too fond of conversational contact perhaps, one of those talks-with-his-hands people… also possesses one too many penises for my taste in potential marriage material. Not his fault, of course.

Matthew is under no illusion that I would be anything more than a good ally in the world after Hogwarts, although I will admit to seeing him as the best shield possible when faced with the simpering daughters of Mother's friends. I think Victoria Smyth actually burst into tears when I put my hand on his knee during coffee in the drawing room. Highly entertaining.

I suppose that it's very cavalier of me to make a joke of this situation, but I find that whenever I try to seriously consider my future, i.e., getting married, siring heirs, and then spending the rest of my life avoiding the family I created to hobnob with lobbyists, Ministry drones and other dull heirs who are avoiding their families, that I become unspeakably angry. So, to stop myself from exploding like some sort of _Sirius_ all over the drawing room, I put my hand on the queer bloke's knee, and had to hide my smirk at all the disappointed faces. But no one was embarrassed and I won't have to endure the misguided attentions of those girls when we return to school, so it certainly wasn't the worst thing I could have done.

R.A.B

 _Post script:_ I feel as though I'm meeting my goals already; this entry includes both complaining and gossip… it is lacking in deductions, however. Oh well, Mr Svig still needs something to work on.

* * *

 _ **Still summer**_

 _I HAVE A CONFESSION!_ (Look at me, embracing the dramatic, how very gauche.)

I must explain the circumstances before I confess my misdeed, as it seems much less selfish when you know why I have chosen to betray my mother's trust.

Ebbs – officially known as Ebenezer Smith the third, second in line to the Patriarchy of the Loyal and Just House of Smith, but more importantly my closest confidant in the Slytherin dorms – has been writing a lot this summer. He has finally come to blows with his father, something any of our dorm-mates would have predicted. The poor sod has been in his father's bad books since he arrived at Hogwarts and managed to get himself put in Slytherin. Smiths are all Hufflepuffs... apparently that's something to be proud of?

I was, even at eleven years old, quite qualified to comfort him. Having had a brother go astray and be happy where he found himself was a good story for Ebbs to hear. And whatever I say about Sirius, I don't think he _chose_ Gryffindor, or to be different from our family. I think he just _is_ different. Slytherin would not have been the right place for him, and those friends of his are clearly insane, but there is… _love_ there, and Sirius has always been needy; desperate for praise, for affection. He was never going to get that from our family.

The same can be said for Ebbs. He is no Hufflepuff, that's for sure. Far too cunning, but the thing about being cunning is that unlike my brother who tossed his lot away and will be skint for the rest of his life because of it, Ebbs knows that he would do better to endure the uncomfortable home life, and leave school with his trust-vault still in operation. Unfortunately it seems like _enduring_ is no longer an option for him. He's been kicked out, apparently for arguing that the Dark Lord's tactics are extreme but will benefit our kind in the long run. Neither of us are foolish enough to run off and join up, the expiry rate of his soldiers is far too high for my liking. I would quite like to live long enough to see this bright future the Dark Lord is promising.

But I digress, confession time is upon us. In light of Ebbs's hardship, I've organised a summer holiday for the pair of us. I've told Mother and Father that we are going on a visit to Cissy's new home in Wiltshire, to put some space between Ebbs and his father. But instead we're going to Paris! (Note the use of an exclamation point – I feel Paris is the type of destination that requires one.) Ebbs needs a bit of lively fun to lift his spirits, not the flowers and country air provided by Wiltshire. Personally I'm looking forward to five days without the greedy eyes of the old family matchmakers following my every move. Cissy's new husband Lucius is away, and she's quite happy to cover for me, as long as we stop in for the night before we go home. I've never told such a lie to my parents, but they would never let us go unchaperoned, and it's not like we'll do anything too terrible…

* * *

 _ **Paris**_

Merlin, I love this city. We've been here two days. The food, the wine, the nightlife, the wine, (yes, twice, to quote Ebbs after a bottle and a half last night, " _this fucking wine is to die for!"_ Crass, but accurate.) Even the Parisian muggles are not as irritating as the British ones – they seem much more cultured. Although this could also be related to my wine consumption, and I will admit that my knowledge of British muggles extends to those who live on Grimmauld Place and the throngs in Kings Cross… perhaps a greater cross-section of society is required to make an educated observation. Surely if the ones here are so inoffensive, then Britain must also contain more than the lowly swine Mother talks about. But that is not the point. The point is that I'm in love with Paris. We've been out both nights since we arrived, and both nights found some very fetching company. This isn't really what I had planned when arranging our stay here, but I'm not going to complain.

To return to school with more 'experience' can only serve me well now that I have this new title to bear. A fumbling virgin for an heir is hardly ideal. Funnily enough, this is a topic Mr Svig is yet to touch on. I had assumed he would be lecturing me in all matters pertaining to the security of the Black line. Perhaps he is waiting until my bride is thrust upon me – no pun intended. In fact, neither he, nor my father have seen fit to advise me on my interactions with the girls Mother is constantly forcing into my company. Is it possible that they feel I'm already sufficiently prepared? Could they actually be content with the way I deport myself? Good grief, my ego is swelling at the very thought.

But, sarcasm aside, I'm very pleased to have had my cumbersome innocence taken, even if she was not a pureblood. As Ebbs said this morning when he joined me for breakfast (looking much the worse for wear with a rather large, mouth-shaped bruise on his neck), " _half-bloods have much less chance of turning out to be our cousins."_ He has a very good point, and I told him as much, and added that they are also less likely to recognise us. The channel is no hindrance for communication, and even less for gossip when it comes to the intertwining social circles of wizarding high society. The absolute last thing he or I need is to have our parents discover that we are not enjoying a peaceful week in the countryside, but a rather exciting one in a rented apartment on the Seine in Paris.

Ebbs most conveniently managed to clean out his father's personal safe before he was thrown out, so we have ample funds for two more nights, and he will still have enough to get through the school year. I would think that I should be able to convince Mother to help ease his transition into emancipation if required. She has always been sympathetic to his plight.

This is something Sirius always found ironic, or hypocritical as he put it: Ebbs's family are pure and reasonably well off, they have a clever and handsome son ready to do their name proud, but because he'd been put in Slytherin against tradition, they shunned him. Yes, I can see why Sirius drew a comparison there, and hate that Mother was on Ebbs's side. But at least being put in Slytherin is proof that Ebbs is driven, that he wants to achieve something. A sorting into Gryffindor means you strive to be dependent on others, and that you value choosing the righteous path, despite the outcome.

It boggles my mind if I'm completely honest, this Gryffindor idea that the result of any situation is not the focus, but whether or not you acted admirably to achieve it? Completely ludicrous. Idealistic idiots. In my heart I pity Sirius, allying himself with such people, he'll be dead before Christmas if the rumours are true. I will be sad to lose my brother; he'd been my champion long before Hogwarts, before Gryffindor, before he had 'real' friends.

One of Ebbs's cousins is married to Gideon Prewett, and he heard from her that Sirius and his band of fools have joined up with Dumbledore's lot officially. It bothers me terribly that he will be fighting against cousin Bella and her ilk; they are so formidable, they'll succeed in this uprising. I'm quite sure of it. I just hope they do it before Father gets it in his head that joining the cause would be a good move for his heir. I'll happily support their aims with the best weapon I have: a very large and full vault. I don't see how my being snuffed out by some delusional mudblood will help preserve wizarding culture and identity.

R.A.B

 _Post script:_ After re-reading my introspectively emotional remarks in regard to my brother, I've decided I must still be suffering the effects of the wine from last night. Although I do not feel drunk... perhaps I have contracted some fast moving venereal disease that has turned me into a maudlin sap? Syphilis is supposed to make you mad, isn't it? Surely not within twelve hours of contraction though…

I've just conferred with Ebbs, he says syphilis turns your piss blue. I'm currently downing my whole night jug of water to be able to test this theory…

Not blue. Introspection must be a result of alcohol rather than madness after all. Also have a feeling that Ebbs has his V.D facts confused.

* * *

 _ **Wiltshire**_

Cousin Cissy is a marvel. We arrived only an hour ago and she took one look at us, tutted, and then summoned the elves to draw baths and dispense hangover remedies. The Wizarding district in Paris did itself proud last night, as well as this morning, when we stumbled from the exclusive and aptly named Chambre Noire only to find that it was daylight and we had barely an hour to pack our things and catch our portkey. We managed, just. I was very glad that the portkey deposited us at the gate of Malfoy Manor, and not on the front step, as portkey travel and a stomach full of French liquor combined resulted in me hurling my guts out quite violently. Funnily enough, I think Ebbs wished he'd had the same reaction; he was still looking distinctly green when we were shown to our rooms. I, on the other hand, am feeling rather chipper.

After sleeping most of the day away, Cissy led us in a tour of the grounds. I will never deny that I'm a city boy through and through, but this place really is very lovely. Except for the birds. If you have never met a peacock in real life, count yourself lucky. Hideous overgrown pigeons, chased me all the way to the boundary before Cissy consented to call them off. She and Ebbs were far too amused by the whole thing. After that we had dinner, and strangely enough neither Ebbs nor myself felt like indulging in post-dinner drinks. I'm not sure if I'll ever have the urge to drink again. All I can think about is the malevolent green shot glasses on the bar at Chambre Noire and the resulting neon green vomit I left next to Cissy's gate.

We are returning to London tomorrow after lunch. Mother has sent word that Ebbs may spend the remaining two weeks of summer holiday with us; he is very pleased. I am as well. Ebbs has always attracted more attention from the girls at school than I managed (not that I've tried very hard) and I can't help but think that his presence at the show-pony dinner parties my mother has undoubtedly lined up will only serve to take the focus off me.

* * *

 _ **London**_

It is wonderful to be back in my own bed. Mother and Father were pleased to have me home I think, they don't like to talk to each other if it can be helped, so my presence at the dinner table this evening was welcome. Ebbs too, he is a shameless suck-up where my mother is concerned. But as he said afterwards, she holds the purse strings. It cannot hurt to be in her good books.

Before we left Wiltshire this afternoon, we were joined at lunch by Lucius, who had just returned from his business trip. I do not know him very well; his father Abraxas and my grandfather Arcturus detest each other, so the Malfoys never come to dinner. We see them at events, but Lucius is nearly ten years older than me, not much reason for us to converse. But he seemed friendly enough. His business had gone better that he could have hoped, he told us, although he wouldn't give any details. I did hear him talking quietly with Cissy, however, and telling her that he had been "taken into his confidence." 'His confidence' being the Dark Lord's, I would say. Lucius might think he has distanced himself publicly from the violent side of the uprising, but I share a dinner table with Bellatrix quite often, and she does no such thing. She has mentioned Lucius's name more than once.

He is so smitten with Cissy. It was a bit sickening actually; I think they would have started shagging right there on the table if we hadn't been there too. Cissy told us yesterday that they want to have a baby as soon as possible. I don't think it will take them very long somehow.

* * *

 _ **Hogwarts**_

Dear Merlin, life as I knew it is over. Six years I've spent at this school, purposely keeping my head down, with the quarterly Quidditch match as the only exception. But now, shit. I can almost understand why Sirius flounced off into the unknown, and he _likes_ attention.

It began on the train. Ebbs and I were interrupted no fewer than ten times by idiots asking if they could sit with us. Ebbs, the wanker, found it very funny, but he's always been sort of popular. I will note that while most of the attention is hideous, Vera Selwyn sat across from me at the feast, and asked me (by name) to pass her the rolls, so I have managed to find a silver lining.

 _-I have not mentioned Vera as yet because I felt that she, being beautiful and funny and perfect, was above the waffle I'm filling these pages with. But after a month of scrawling down my thoughts, I've decided there might be some merit to the process after all._

Vera Selwyn is the sort of girl my mother dreams of me marrying. Unfortunately Vera's father is very aware of his daughter's virtues – he does not allow her to attend cattle calls disguised as dinner parties or to even consort with boys outside of school. And until this year her older brother Ian had helped enforce this rule during term time as well. He was the same year as Sirius and finished his seventh in June just passed.

But Vera aside, I'm now barricaded inside my bed curtains, because if one more person asks me how my summer was, I'm going to start indiscriminately hexing bystanders. Ebbs is no help, he and our other dorm-mates are out in the common room enjoying being the top of the food chain. The little firsties and most of the second-years have all trooped off to bed, but the upper years will no doubt be up half the night. At least that means I get some peace and quiet.

* * *

I take it back. All of it. Being heir is very, very fortuitous. I was late leaving dinner tonight when I was propositioned by a seventh-year girl I've never even spoken to before. I don't even know which house she's in, probably Gryffindor given the recklessness of her actions. I honestly don't remember if I even said yes… I must have done because we ended up in a broom closet with her hand down my trousers. I don't think Ebbs believed me when I told him, probably because I couldn't even tell him the girl's name. He just rolled his eyes and muttered something about not enough French wine in Scotland. Dick.

I don't understand how this popular thing works, though. Was that girl (I think her name is Charlotte) hoping that I would want to go out with her after she got me off in a cupboard with iffy permission? And if so, why didn't she hang around afterward? She certainly got my attention, and was quite good with her hands, I would have liked to know more about her… I actually feel a little used now. Molested by a randy girl… Merlin, imagine if the roles were reversed, men go to jail for that sort of thing.

* * *

It's been a week since I managed to write anything in here, Mr Svig clearly hasn't thought his system through. If you wish to become successful you must write your thoughts in a diary, but if you wish to become successful you must also do the mounds of homework assigned to you, leaving no time to write down your thoughts, or in fact, any leftover brain power to even have thoughts with. But it is Sunday afternoon, my homework is done, the sun is out and everyone has left the castle to enjoy possibly the last fine day of the year. I am in the library. It is blissfully empty of students and the silence is perfect.

At the risk of sounding completely hormone-riddled, I am about to relay my week and the interesting developments in my… 'sex life?' I'm not at all fond of that term, 'hand-job life' would be more accurate, I suppose. Because this week Charlotte Vain (who turns out to be in Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor) has accosted me every evening after dinner. She is actually very nice, she told me last night that she's had a crush on me since fifth year. We have Charms together I discovered earlier this week, and have done since OWLs. She told me that with my newfound popularity, she decided she was going have to do something extreme to demand my attention. Surprising a chap with an orgasm was certainly attention grabbing.

She's coming to meet me here soon, not for trouser shenanigans (I'm in no mood to be shouted at by Pince for defiling her books), but because I want to talk to her. I feel like I'm some kind of defective male because I want to have a conversation with the girl. If she's so fond of me, why wouldn't I want to know her? I have already checked into her family; she has a half-blood grandmother on both sides, but the Vains are a pretty respectable family… I don't think Mother will disapprove, and it's not like I'm proposing.

Mother probably _would_ disapprove if she knew the nature of our relationship thus far. She has the most stringent standards for female behaviour. I don't understand it myself, Charlotte is clearly not hung up on what might be deemed as socially acceptable behaviour for a young lady, and I don't think any less of her. In fact, I'm a little frightened of the way she can get me to do whatever she pleases, like I'm a dog and she has a firm grip on my 'leash'.

* * *

I really don't know what to make of this girl, but I'm quite sure I've ruined my chances of any further trysts in the broom closets of Hogwarts. I truly thought she was aware of the line my family takes in the uprising. Her disgusted reaction and the sharp slap she delivered to my cheek would suggest otherwise, however. And now that I think about it, Sirius was vocally pro-ministry, and pro-Dumbledore, and with my carefully honed nonexistence, I suppose it's not that surprising that she thought I shared his views rather than my parents'.

It is a testament to my newfound teenage libido that I considered telling her I was anti-Dark Lord, but even sexual favours aren't worth my mother's wrath when she finds out I've been consorting with a Phoenix cadet.

Ebbs is very amused by the whole thing, he keeps laughing at the idea of me being 'cockblocked' by the Dark Lord. He says he'd heard the Dark Lord was a cruel and spiteful leader, but getting between a seventeen-year-old and his female-assisted climax seems like a step too far.

I think Ebbs has a very good point.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Dumbledore

_**Chapter Thirteen: Dumbledore**_

* * *

A sharp rap on his closed door startled Draco. He'd been so immersed in Regulus's diary, he'd almost forgotten where he was. But with one glance it all came back – the old wardrobe, its once fine lines slightly off kilter now; the long wooden framed window, its faded velvet curtains still open. It was darker outside than he'd expected it to be.

He'd been reading every chance he could get since yesterday afternoon, and with only an hour lost to Vance and her calisthenics, and six or so hours spent sleeping, he'd made it through quite a lot. It was the strangest, most unsettling thing to read about his parents when they were young, before he existed. When he was just an idea full of hope for his mother and legacy for his father. Reading Regulus's comments on their relationship, how in love they were once, filled Draco with an awful sort of sadness. His last memories of his parents together did not illustrate love in any kind of romantic form. Duty perhaps, and dedication, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen them show any sort of affection to each other.

"Dumbledore is here," Lupin's voice said through the door, a follow up to his knock. "Downstairs in the dining room. He'll be ready to speak to you shortly."

Draco stashed the diary back under his pillow and got up at once, listening as Lupin's steps retreated. The werewolf seemed to have no desire to speak to him more than was necessary. But Draco didn't have room in his suddenly panicked mind for Lupin's standoffishness right then, because he was about to find out if his mother was willing to be extracted from her house.

His contemplation of her relationship with his father made Draco worry that she would choose loyalty to the cause over escaping with her defecting son. If their love was once so strong, would she really abandon Lucius to Azkaban? Surely she would choose her son, the baby she had wanted so badly. _She would,_ Draco told himself firmly as he went downstairs. The affirmation, however, was not enough to stop the drumroll his heart was doing in his chest, nor make his uneven breathing more steady.

The dining room doors off the entryway were firmly shut when he arrived, but even as he raised his hand to knock, one of them swung inward suddenly, pulled with decent force. Potter appeared in the doorway, pale-faced, striding furiously from the room, and almost walked headlong into Draco, who sidestepped quickly.

"Watch where you're going, Potter!" he said indignantly.

Potter glowered at him. "Malfoy, bloody _Malfoy_ in my way," he muttered under his breath, looking erratic and disturbingly twitchy. He continued to mutter as he slumped away. " _Kill Voldemort?_ He's barking, lost his mind!"

Draco's eyes followed Potter's path up the staircase. Granger was waiting for him on the first floor landing, her expression very concerned as she took in Potter's strange demeanor.

When he reached her, she put a hand to his shoulder and quietly asked, "What did he say?"

Instead of answering, Potter shrugged her off, jerking at the touch and mumbled something Draco couldn't hear before he headed up the next flight of stairs and disappeared into his bedroom with a loud snap of the door. There was a brief moment when Granger looked down to where Draco was standing, still staring after Potter.

 _What on earth?_ she mouthed at him, clearly meaning Potter, to which Draco replied with a confused and noncommittal raised eyebrow. He had a feeling he knew exactly 'what on earth' Potter was worried about. The Chosen One seemed to have been told his destiny.

And what a daunting one it was.

"Mr Malfoy, I'd like to speak to you now," a voice said quite close to Draco, making his head snap around in surprise. Dumbledore was standing in the doorway to the dining room, holding his wand and wearing that familiar look of polite inquiry that Draco always associated with him. He'd been so focused on Potter's odd behaviour and his silent communication with Granger that, even with the benign expression, Dumbledore had still taken him unawares. He barely concealed his little start.

Draco nodded stiffly at the headmaster, who was dressed as usual in long sweeping robes and traditional pointed hat, both a deep plum colour with golden stitched swirling patterns on the sleeves of the robes and tracing their way around the brim of the hat. He followed as Dumbledore led the way into the dining room, gesturing for him to sit on one of the twelve finely carved chairs that lined the long table. Taking a look around, Draco now understood why Kreacher hated Sirius's insistence that they eat in the kitchen; this beautiful room was definitely wasted all closed up and sitting unused. The long, white lacquered table gleamed in the light from the chandelier above, its matching chairs with their carefully turned legs bowing out in a style that had been so popular in France three centuries ago – no doubt where and when the piece had been made. The room was light, with pale green and white striped silk walls, and bare floorboards like those in the hall.

"I am pleased to hear you seem to be fitting in well here," Dumbledore said, seating himself at the head of the table. "Even Molly Weasley has nothing bad to say about you."

"Thank goodness for that," Draco muttered, pulling out a chair halfway down the table. As if he cared what _Molly_ thought of him.

"I have good news," Dumbledore continued, "but before I share it with you, I have a few questions I'd like you to answer."

Draco lifted his eyebrows in expectation. That didn't surprise him; of course Dumbledore would want something in exchange for his assistance.

"I would like you to tell me how Harry was able to kill Lord Voldemort."

The bluntness of this question shocked Draco a bit, and it took him a moment to collect himself. It was quite a request, as the answer would involve an awful lot of information he really wasn't prepared to share. His recent unfortunate conversations with both Black and Granger had made him much more guarded, and he quickly brought up the old memory of the grimy stone wall of his cell in Azkaban, determined to prevent Dumbledore from picking around in his head for the answers he wanted.

Letting out a slow breath, Draco decided that it wouldn't hurt to share the meagre facts of that night. He met his old headmaster's eyes and said, "Potter killed him by deflecting the Dark Lord's Avada Kedavra, so that it rebounded and destroyed him."

The memory of the final fight tried very hard to intrude on Draco's cell wall, especially when he remembered the shock of seeing his wand in Potter's hand. He had a flash of the bloody, disheveled boy and his looming black-robed enemy circling each other before he managed to focus again.

"I see," Dumbledore said carefully, his voice quiet and coaxing. "But what I would really like to know is what happened before they fought. You will understand my skepticism of the story that a seventeen-year-old was able to duel Voldemort and win, when even I, with my prodigious skill, have not been able to best him in a duel." Dumbledore gazed at him intently and then asked, "is it something to do with wands?"

"Get out of my head," Draco growled, glaring at the gleaming white tabletop. Even just his minor slip as he remembered the battle was enough for Dumbledore to extract a vital piece of information. Draco resolved to block him out even more firmly.

"I would not need to use such methods if you were just open with me, Draco," Dumbledore said gently. Out the corner of his eye, Draco caught the sight of the headmaster's wand resting on the table, and it thankfully gave him an idea. He knew quite a bit about that wand, after all. "Let me remind you that I have taken a great many risks on your behalf," the headmaster was still saying, unaware of Draco's sudden inspiration.

"Fine," he said, looking up once more, "but I want to know some good news first. I will tell you what I know, but you need to give me a reason." He met Dumbledore's eyes and finished firmly, "a _real_ reason."

Dumbledore smiled and nodded slightly. "Well played, Mr Malfoy. I must confess myself quite eager to hear what you have to say." He straightened his spectacles and picked up his wand, and with the smallest movement and a puff of emerald smoke, a steamer trunk appeared to Draco's chair. It was his school things.

Draco reached a hand out to touch the initials embossed above the handle. _D.L.M._ "Thank you," he said, meaning it.

"You're welcome," Dumbledore replied with another little nod. "I would like to start by assuring you that no one is aware you have left Hogwarts. Professor Snape felt it best to tell your friends you have been quarantined in the Hospital Wing. He seems to think that some of them might tell their parents that you had disappeared, which would lead to unwanted questions about your whereabouts. We have released the story that you have spattergroit."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "How embarrassing," he grumbled.

"But wonderfully contagious," Dumbledore pointed out. "We couldn't have your friends and admirers demanding to pay you a visit."

"I suppose." Draco agreed. Although his image within the school was way, _way_ down his list of priorities right then, being teased for contracting spattergroit was still an unwelcome prospect.

"Your feigned sickness was also how we managed to contact your mother," Dumbledore continued. "She was called to the school to check on you. Professor Snape and I told her the truth, or part of it, and she is making preparations to join you here in two weeks time."

Draco struggled not to react to that. _She was coming!_ She had chosen him. He'll have at least saved her from the horror their lives would become.

"She will tell her houseguests that you are being moved to St Mungo's. Even Voldemort will not stop her from visiting her ill son. Of course, she will not return from her trip to London, but by then it will be too late, she will be safe with us here. We then have a plan in place for you to leave the country with her shortly afterward."

 _That's really good news,_ Draco thought, a weight he hadn't really been conscious of lifting from his chest. "What plan?"

"She has a distant cousin living in New York, he is prepared to take you in. As I understand it, he is organising new identities for you both."

"And what about my father?" He knew the chances were slim, but Dumbledore had been known to create miracles in the past.

"He is in prison, Draco," Dumbledore said solemnly. "There is nothing I can do about that. I think a new life for you and your mother is the best possible outcome."

 _Two weeks,_ Draco thought, deliberately not focusing on losing his father all over again; he had to make the most of what he had here. Two more weeks in this house wasn't too bad, he could handle two weeks.

"Okay," he agreed, marshalling his thoughts and trying to decide where to start with his part of their bargain. With the most important bit, he supposed. "I heard Potter's warning to the Dark Lord the night he fought him. He claimed that he was the master of the Elder Wand."

"Really?" Dumbledore did not seem nearly surprised enough in Draco's opinion. "The Elder Wand is just a myth."

"Well, both Potter and the Dark Lord seemed to think otherwise." Draco narrowed his eyes at the headmaster; it felt quite good to have the upper hand. "And you do too," he said decisively. "That's it. Right there." He nodded at the wand on the table.

"Is that so?" Dumbledore asked casually, glancing down at his wand as well.

"Stop it," Draco snapped angrily. "If you want to know the whole story-"

Dumbledore interruption was hasty. "My apologies, Mr Malfoy. I was not aware that anyone knew my wand's dark history."

"No one does yet," Draco said, "the only reason I understood Potter's words that night was because I already knew half the story. It started when I was given the task of killing you."

"My word," Dumbledore said blandly, clearly refusing to react. "And did you succeed?"

For a second, Draco considered lying just to unnerve the old man, but found he couldn't. "No," he said bitterly, feeling an odd, misplaced regret.

"Killing is much harder than the innocent believe," Dumbledore said softly.

Draco gave a little shudder as those words took him right back to the top of the astronomy tower. He took a deep breath and focused on the wall in his head. He wanted to protect Professor Snape. "Apparently so."

"But what does that have to do with my wand?" Dumbledore asked.

"I successfully disarmed you that night, making me the master of your wand," Draco explained, "but then, when you were killed shortly afterward, the Dark Lord thought that _that_ person was the master of the Elder Wand, so he killed him instead of me."

"Who was it that completed your task for you?" Dumbledore asked, as though Draco had been caught paying other students to do his homework rather than failing to murder the headmaster himself.

Draco shook his head. "No, that's not the point," he said, banishing all thought of Snape's blank expression as he'd lifted his wand to end the headmaster's life from his mind. "The point is that I was the master of your wand and the Dark Lord had no idea. Months later, Potter and I fought and he took my wand from me. He used it in the duel with the Dark Lord."

"You had been using the Elder Wand?"

"No, I never had your wand, it was buried with you. I think the Dark Lord must have taken it from your tomb. He had it that night, anyway, at the final battle. I think he said something about taking it… I can't remember now." Draco really didn't want to remember; the memory of that night was nightmare material, to say the least. "But I do remember Potter saying something like, " _do you think it knows that I'm its true master? Are you willing to risk it?_ "

"I see." Dumbledore almost sounded disappointed. "That is very useful information, thank you, Mr Malfoy." He paused then, contemplating his wand, rolling it back and forth under his long, aged fingers. "Is there anything else you can tell me about that night?"

There _was_ something else, something that had haunted Draco for a long time; it still did on occasion. An event that had terrified him more than living in close quarters with the Dark Lord: being marooned on a tower of tettering furniture, surrounded by flames, sure that he would fall and be burned alive. Those were the last moments of Potter's hunt for a diadem in the Room of Hidden Things… it seemed like that was probably something important.

Draco had put it together well enough. Potter's taunts about Horcruxes as he and the Dark Lord had squared off, the strange way the diadem had broken, leaking a black something from inside it, almost like it was dying – bleeding to death. Potter had possibly even called it a Horcrux... Draco struggled to bring the memory forward, but all saw was the terrifying flames of Crabbe's fiendfyre, the relief of Potter swooping out of nowhere to haul him onto his broom, the terror that had gripped him as he'd gripped Potter and they'd flown to safety. That had to be the only moment in his life when he would have admitted that perhaps Potter was actually a better flyer than him…

"There was a Horcrux," Draco said before he could stop himself, the statement finally getting a reaction from Dumbledore that actually fit the topic at hand; the crinkled skin around his light blue eyes paled as something fanatical lit his face, as if Draco had just given him a spell to revive the dead. It was gone as quickly as it came, carefully hidden in the modulated expression he always wore.

Now, however, he knew he'd struck gold. After four days spent being cautious and constantly on edge, now he had something of value, something to insure Dumbledore followed through on his word. It felt so good to be in control for once – why had he not realised it before? Information about the future was not a burden, not now that he knew he'd be leaving this place in two weeks.

Draco stood from his chair, emboldened by his realisation. He knew exactly how to play this. "It's in the Room of Hidden Things at Hogwarts. A tiara, Potter called it a diadem." He turned away from Dumbledore's expression, which now held nothing but shock, and picked up his trunk by the handle at one end. As he began to drag it towards the door his stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch, like he was suddenly about to vomit, but it passed almost as quickly as it had come, how bizarre. He paused as the nausea vanished, and looked back at the headmaster once more.

He didn't even need to force himself to sound threatening as spoke, because in that moment he meant every word. "If my mother is not here in two weeks, Dumbledore, I will find a way to let the Dark Lord know where I've come from. He will see me as an indispensable asset, and as I've already told you, I'm not loyal to any cause, just to the person who can keep my family and myself safe."

Draco nearly smiled at the way Dumbledore looked then; concerned and a little wary that he'd pushed Draco too far. "I understand, Mr Malfoy," he said in a rather cautious voice. "I understand."

* * *

 _ **A/N:**_ _Thanks so much for all the feedback on the diary, I've fixed the division between entries problem that many people pointed out (it wasn't my fault, FFN ate my formating!)_

 _And of course a big giant thank you to_ _ **SableUnstable**_ _for her magnificent Beta skills._

 _Also, I promise the romance tag on this isn't just for show, it's coming eventually! I just needed to get all that pesky plot out of the way first. :)_

 _Thanks for reading,_

 _Mrs J xx_


	15. Regulus's Journal: Part Two

_Thanks for all the feedback! and Thanks to_ _ **SableUnstable**_ _for not getting overwhelmed by the number of chapters I've dumped on her lately!_

 _This is the second of the three parts of Regulus's Journal :)_

* * *

 _ **Regulus's Journal: Part Two**_

* * *

 _ **October**_

It is Sunday afternoon again, and just as I was last week, I've taken to the back tables in the library where no one will bother me. I've discovered firsthand that females are completely uninterpretable creatures. Charlotte, last week's closet paramour, has spent this week telling anyone that would listen that I'm completely obsessed with the Dark Lord. The rumour mill in this place is phenomenal. I heard yesterday afternoon that I spent the summer holidays working as the Dark Lord's personal valet, something that is ridiculous, not only because the heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black would never serve as a _valet_ , but also- HOUSE ELVES. They are our valets. The mudbloods really must be more original with their story invention.

But, on the bright side of this odd debacle, it turns out that the very lovely and unattainable Vera Selwyn has taken an interest in me – or perhaps just pities me this ordeal of dark celebrity. She has seated herself next to me at dinner twice since the rumours began, and we had a very pleasant conversation about the likelihood of persuading Slughorn to allow wine at the next club meeting. Apparently she has a very reliable source for crystallized pineapple imported from the Caribbean. Slughorn is so easily bought, the next big decision will be chardonnay or sav.

R.A.B.

* * *

I've managed to find time to write early this week. It's only Wednesday, but I've been so keen on avoiding everyone that my homework is all up to date for the week already. Quidditch trials are on Saturday, and while I'm reasonably confident I'll be able to hold on to my position, you never know, there could be some new talent in the younger years. I've been Seeker since fourth year and that was the only year we won the cup. Obviously I'd be thrilled if we could manage to take it again this year. It would be a brilliant send off.

Ebbs got a letter from home today. He was pretty surprised, I thought he was going to set it alight right there at breakfast, the look he was giving it. The letter turned out to be from his mother, telling him she was working on his father and that she hoped to see him for Christmas. I can tell Ebbs is uneasy about the distance from his family. Must be the ingrained Hufflepuff that's rubbed off on him.

I think he's much better off without them, but it's his family, and they are more than just name and duty to him, however much he wishes they weren't.

Interestingly, I found out during our conversation about family and such that Ebbs's father doesn't hate Slytherin for the same mundane reason most wizards do (i.e. sneaky, self-serving sneaks), but instead because of an old personal grudge. Apparently, years ago his great aunt was duped out of half the Smith treasure by a well-known Slytherin alumnus by the name of Riddle. He'd secured a job as a goods merchant after leaving school, and Mr Smith says the merchant tricked their dotty old aunt into selling many of the family heirlooms. By the time the will was read and the Smith estate reassessed, their family had lost several generations worth of accrued wealth.

I would possibly hold a grudge too, if some smarmy joker had taken advantage of an old lady to further his career.

This doesn't bode well for Ebbs's chances of making up with his dad. If money is the thing that sets his father off, then Ebbs has pretty much burnt that bridge when he took all the gold in his father's safe before he was kicked out. Mr Smith will probably just see this as more proof of Slytherin greed.

R.A.B.

* * *

I've retained my position as Seeker. None of the other candidates could match me, thank goodness. This year would have been all the more irritating without Quidditch to focus on. I really do enjoy it very much, probably because it's something that no one else in our family is good at.

Sirius was too lazy to keep up with the training schedule, and Father never played. Alphard and Cygnus both follow the league but have no personal skill, and all my female cousins used to play as children but stopped when they started Hogwarts. Aunt Druella's opinion on women who play Quidditch is a common one amongst her generation and ilk.

" _A woman of worth should not spread her legs for anything except her husband, so straddling a broomstick is quite out of the question."_

Ludicrous, if you ask me. Although I do find Bellatrix's ability to side-ride with her knees together in a graceful perch very impressive.

 _Side note:_ sometimes I wonder about women like Aunt Durella and my mother – why are they so happy to reinforce the premise of demure is desirable? (This musing is much less about Quidditch and more about 'broom-riding' if you get me.) I can't help but compare the starchy, dull pillow-brains that came to dinner in the summer with the much more… _languid_ girls that we met in Paris. I find I have a higher opinion of the Parisian girls, even though tradition says men think less of freer women. But I would much rather find myself married to someone who can hold a conversation on something more substantial than fashionable hem length.

(Very sexist generalisation there, I'm sure, but honestly, Deila and Cecilia Timms talked about above or below the ankle for half an hour while MacKinnon and I were having a laugh at dinner.)

I just do not see why the older generations insist on drumming it into their sons' heads that any girl who has an opinion or a sense of humor before she is married is trashy.

I wonder if muggles have this problem? Their rules seem looser than ours, judging by the ones I've seen. Not so much lately, but when I started at Hogwarts, there used to be a group that slept rough in the summer under ramshackle tents on the Grimmauld Place green. Their clothes were bright and it was hard to tell the men from the women, but they would sing a lot. Sirius used to get in trouble for opening his window to listen to them; he once told me that he wished he could go live with them. I thought at the time he just wanted to stay up late and sing songs, but now that I think about it, he probably envied their casual life...

But I digress. Witches' rights is quite a tangent from my Quidditch tryout results, isn't it? I like to pride myself on being a modern thinker.

So, aside from my pleasure at retaining my spot on the team, the tryouts heralded a few surprises. We have a new Keeper, Riley Bulstrode, whom I swear has been in the skele-grow. Unnaturally-sized chap, but quick. The Chasers are the same three – Higgs, Urquhart, and Jasper – and our captain, Petersen, obviously kept his place. He's a Beater, but he's got a new mate this year, a fourth year with an arm like a catapult, James Dennis.

Ebbs came along to cheer me from the stands, not that I could hear him over the high-pitched excitement I apparently cause these days. Ten or more witches grouped in the Slytherin stands, cheering nonsense about 'Slytherin's Lion.'

Honestly, sometimes I wish I was allowed to hex people just for being daft.

The lion reference has clearly come from some cleverclogs who realised I'm named after the brightest star in Leo, and Ebbs has been calling me 'little lion' ever since, the tosser. Even my 'accidental' slamming of his fingers in the dormitory door didn't get him to cut it out. I will have to think of a better (more painful) way to get through to him. If I have lost my usual cognomen of 'Seeker' due to him and those heir-hunting twits, equal rights can fuck right off.

"Little lion." I feel the need to write that I'm shaking my head in disdain at this horror. Merlin save me.

* * *

As I feared. It is a thing. Me being called Lion has become a chummy, jokey, repulsive _thing_.

Although thankfully the girls omit the 'little', Ebbs keeps insisting on. And the few that have had the nerve to use anything other than my actual name, or Seeker, to my face have been met with my most superiorly threatening scowl, so I'm hoping the name will have disappeared by the end of week.

I sort of wish Sirius was around (he's the actual Black lion, after all.) He'd think me besmirching his precious house animal so offensive, I wouldn't have to lift a finger to get them to stop using the name. He and his band of merry fools would have jinxed them all into real lions waving Gryffindor flags or something, and put an end to it.

But with the first match of the season approaching quickly, and eleven N.E. to keep up with, I suppose I should be focused on something other than trivial school politics. Instead I thought I should record my opinion of the politics outside Hogwarts.

The careful orchestration of the Dark Lord's uprising is quite formidable. I might not agree with some of his methods – killing children, for example, seems extreme and pointless – but there can be no denying that these methods are effective. I'm sure it is only a matter of time now before he has enough of the Ministry under his command to initiate a successful coup. I'm hoping it will be before the school year is over. I'm sure my parents will encourage me to join his side when I'm fully qualified, and I really don't fancy having to duel for my life just to keep our future leader happy.

R.A.B.

* * *

 _ **November**_

I must confess myself quite giddy (and a little drunk). Not only did we thrash Gryffindor in the first match of the season, but the lovely Vera sat very close to me all through the celebrations in the common room, and had a most entertaining argument with Roland Hodges, who is a total berk. She really put him in his place, clever girl. Then, to seal a perfect day, she has just not five minutes ago kissed me goodnight before heading off to the girls' dormitory. Seriously, I'm already beginning to wonder if I imagined it.

* * *

I didn't imagine it. The kiss at the aftermatch party most definitely happened. Ebbs is so jealous he can't even find a way to tease me about it, and Vera has found her way to my side between classes and at meals all week. There have been no more kisses, but I feel reasonably confident that we are now an item.

This journal has become nothing but a collection of tales of the heart, hasn't it? But right now I don't care, with Christmas break four weeks away it was not something I'd been giving a lot of thought to. That was until Vera asked if I would like to come and meet her parents.

* * *

 _ **Christmas holidays**_

It was a very busy last few weeks of term, and I was unable to find time to write in here. Petersen, our team captain, insisted on practice four nights a week. I think he's concerned we will all overindulge at Christmas and return to school slothful and chubby, weighed down with plum pudding.

I have a session with Mr Svig tomorrow. I hope that he does not ask to see this journal. I'm sure it's not at all what he envisioned when he suggested I record my thoughts.

I'm in the good books with Mother and Father – the news of my relationship with Vera has Mother practically humming the wedding march. She was almost unbearably smug at my invitation. " _The Selwyns? Oh my boy, well done! Their daughter is wonderful, and their line does seem inclined to producing male children. You must make a good impression,"_ and so on. I am not complaining, she has bought me new dress robes and bullied Father into giving me my family ring early, rather than waiting until my birthday next month. It has also served the very beneficial service of getting her to cancel the dinners full of eligible daughters she had arranged. " _We must not appear desperate."_

Of course not, Mother.

Merlin save me.

* * *

Mr Svig is such fraud. My meeting with him today was short, thankfully, but he still managed to imply that I am still far too reserved in my character. He spent most of the session asking my opinion on current events and how I see them affecting our family. He was not impressed that my opinion was mainly that we should keep out of it for as long as possible, waiting until the last possible moment to declare our loyalty to the side that looks most likely to win. Svig is definitely on the Dark Lord's side. He gave me a folder full of newspaper cuttings illustrating the Dark Lord's steady rise, showing his numerous victories over the mudbloods. It looks to me like the Dark Lord has someone at the Daily Prophet in his pocket, because they are becoming less and less scathing about him every week.

* * *

My dinner with the Selwyns was rather momentous. Not only were Vera and her brothers Ian and Maxwell there, but the Dark Lord himself. I had no idea her family were so familiar with him. Ian and Maxwell are Death Eaters, there is no doubt about that. And I would guess her father is, too, although at his age I'd say his involvement is more like a gesture of solidarity – and gold whenever necessary.

The Dark Lord was impressive, I can not deny it. Cultured and polite, he held the table rapt as he told us of his time in Eastern Europe, studying the old ways there. It was easy to see how much he respected the pure traditional values that those isolated communities hold. I can definitely understand how he has so many wizards willing to fight for him. He will be an excellent leader when he finally gains power. My only complaint is the way he looked at Vera. She is beautiful, as I have said countless times in here, and many people admire her, but there was something possessive in the way his gaze seemed to fall on her more and more throughout the evening. Vera did not seem bothered by it, however, so perhaps I'm the one being possessive.

Mr Selwyn was quite friendly to me, which I had not expected, given his reputation for protecting his daughter from the evil of school boys. He shook my hand and spoke fondly of my mother's father Pollux, who he attended Hogwarts with. They got up to all sorts of mischief if his stories are to be believed. I will have to ask my grandfather about it next time he comes to visit.

The evening ended with Vera's parents asking me to return at Easter, and then Vera, the bold thing that she is, kissed me in farewell right in front of them. Neither her mother nor father did more than smile, but I got the most uncomfortable glare from Ian as I left the house. It made me wonder if he was the one stopping Vera from consorting with boys at school, rather than her father.

* * *

I finally heard from Ebbs today. He's gone home for Christmas, at his mother's insistence. He says things are very awkward, as his father is still furious with him, but his mother is managing to keep the peace – she reminds me a lot of my mother sometimes. I'm sure they would be friends if the Smiths weren't such famously filthy blood traitors.

Ebbs is coming to visit us for New Year's Eve. Mother always throws a large party, it's normally rather dull, but with Ebbs there (and fingers crossed, Vera too), it should be a bit more lively this year.

Mother sent off an invitation to the Selwyns, and I think she nearly whooped and clicked her heels this morning when Mrs Selwyn replied that they would be in attendance. The only downside is that suddenly she's marching about the house, barking orders at Kreacher to polish and re-polish every available surface. I highly doubt that a bit of dust would prevent Mr Selwyn from giving his blessing if Vera and I were ever to get engaged, but Mother doesn't see it that way.

* * *

 _ **Christmas Eve**_

We've had a rather sad day today. My Uncle Alphard passed away this morning. He was found dead in his London flat by his 'close friend' Marcelle just before lunchtime. The healers say he had a heart attack. I find myself quite upset that he has gone so young, only 49.

Alphard was a wonderful uncle. He never married, and everyone knows why but never mentions it, and because he was not tied down with children he spent most of his time traveling the world. He would always have some sort of trinket for Sirius and I when he came to visit, and he told the most magnificent stories of his adventures.

Sirius was especially close to him. It makes me wonder if he knows that his favourite relation is dead. Mother and Father have no way of contacting Sirius, not that they would. Mother refuses to mention him now, she seems intent on pretending she only has one son. I'm considering writing to him myself, I'm sure my owl could find him. I'm sure Mother and Father's owl could find him, too, but Mother won't even try.

* * *

Alphard's funeral has been set for the 30th of December. Father wanted to cancel the New Year's Party, but Mother wouldn't hear of it. Uncle Cynus and my father have been drinking their grief away since Christmas Eve, I don't think they've left the library, or its whiskey decanter, in two days.

Alphard's will is to be read the morning of the funeral, and family have been arriving nonstop since the news was put out. Alphard has no heir, and had a real talent for business. His travels were mainly work related – he sought desirable magical objects to import and sell in Britain and was very successful. I think many of the family are hoping he will have spread his enviable personal collection around.

Our house is now full of people. Father's sister Lucretia and her husband Ignatius are sleeping in one of the guest rooms, and Grandfather Pollux and Granny Irma arrived this morning. Pollux is quite devastated at the loss of his son, he immediately went to join the mourning men in the library when he arrived. Aunt Druella, Cygnus's wife, has been visiting a lot, too, helping Mother with the logistics of party planning, funeral directing, and organising the will-reading, which will be held in our drawing room.

I am steering clear of all of it. Ebbs is arriving today as well, thank goodness. I think we'll head out for drinks in town tonight. I need to get away from this place.

* * *

Ebbs and I had a grand time last night, although I regret it thoroughly this morning. He really is a great friend, for all that he teases me relentlessly. Instead of 'little lion,' he is now referring to me as 'Mrs Selwyn,' since I can apparently speak of nothing but Vera. I blame the drink.

He was a bit in awe when I told him about meeting the Dark Lord, although I think it was the horrified kind of awe rather than the envious sort. Ebbs has definitely changed his tune of late about the uprising. We used to agree that the violent methods were necessary, but Ebbs has more family on the other side of the fight. Some have been lost already, I think the reality of it all has shaken him.

He vehemently insisted I write to Sirius and tell him of Alphard's death. " _Don't be such a mummy's boy, Reg, Sirius should know and he should hear it from someone in the family."_

* * *

 _ **The funeral**_

Well, Ebbs is a sodding idiot. I never should have written to Sirius. What a disaster. Mother is going to string me up. I'm currently hiding in the attic, just to make sure I don't see her until she's had a chance to calm down… although I don't think I'll be able to survive up here for that many years. Perhaps Kreacher will bring me food.

This morning began as usual, a house full of relations who don't really like each other forcing themselves to be polite at the breakfast table. Then Mr Hadsfield, the family solicitor arrived, and we all took our places in the drawing room for the reading of Alphard's will. Mother had arranged tea and sandwiches for all present but most of it went untouched. We were not there for long enough to require more food so soon after breakfast.

 _Side note:_ you can imagine how I regret this now, trapped as I am with only this journal and my misplaced sentimentality for company. I wish I'd stuffed my pockets with egg and cress while I had the chance. But I'm sure starving to death will be less painful than having strips torn off me by my irate mother.

Mr Hadsfield unscrolled the official record of Alphard's will and said, " _this document contains the last will and testament of Alphard Phineas Black."_ He went on a bit, the legal stuff about Alphard having been in sound mind and so on. Then, to everyone's horror and surprise, there was only one item of bequest. " _I, Alphard Black, leave my entire estate to my nephew, Sirius Orion Black."_

I think the tapestry is still smouldering. Mother could not be contained. I always thought my father was the one who lacked social dignity, but this morning proved that my mother is far more unhinged than anyone ever knew.

Perhaps, if this was where the day's disasters ended then she would have recovered herself. But it was not to be.

The funeral itself was nice enough, a well attended service, with beautiful flowers and fitting music. Mother restrained herself all the way through, although she did glare at the coffin with rather too much dislike than was proper.

It wasn't until we were leaving, following the procession, that we saw him. Sirius, standing at the back. He looked very upset. And I do understand that it must be hard for him, facing the world without any real family, but he was a fool to turn up. Mother's fury was so close to surface, the moment she saw him she drew her wand. I was quite shocked, I'll admit. For her to do such a thing in front of the people gathered there; every important family in England was represented and there was my mother, standing feet from the casket, her wand out and trained on the estranged son she pretended didn't exist.

Then, because Sirius is an absolute idiot, he did the same. He didn't back off and leave, no not my pigheaded brother. He looked at me and said, " _thanks for letting me know, Reg,"_ and then sent a jinx at our mother so her skin turned bright green like some cliched muggle fairy tale witch. He was gone right after, before she, or anyone else, could react.

So it is quite understandable that I think it prudent to hide from Mother's wrath for now, since Sirius landed me in it. She knows it was me who told him where the funeral was. Even now I can hear her screeches echoing up through the house. Apparently Sirius's jinx was something of an unbreakable personal invention, because it's been hours and Mother's face is still as green as the hills of Ireland.

R.A.B.


	16. Chapter Fourteen: Emmeline

_Just a reminder that this story is being posted as both a Drarry and a Dramione, (Soupy George is my slash account, so the Drarry version is there) I've had a few concerned readers thinking that one version is stolen. :)_

 _Thanks again for all the feedback on the journal entries, and I'm sure you'll all be glad to get back to Draco!_

 _Beta'd by_ _ **SableUnstable.**_

* * *

 ** _Chapter Fourteen: Emmeline_**

* * *

It was close to midnight as Draco grinned to himself at the idea of a bright green Walburga Black. His own memories of his great aunt were rather hazy. He'd only been small when she died, but he had a vague recollection of being very frightened of her, and hiding amongst the skirts of his mother's robes when she'd come to Malfoy Manor for dinner one time.

Suddenly voices out on the landing disturbed the silence of the old house, startling Draco. There were two people speaking quietly to each other, and he clutched his closed book and quickly extinguished the tip of his wand he'd been using to read. Darkness fell just in time for him to see a shadow pass across the strip of light that normally showed in the crack between door and floorboards. Whoever it was was standing very close to his bedroom.

"I really wish you'd let me go with you," the first voice said. It sounded like Lupin.

"Remus, really," a woman replied, confirming Draco's guess. It was Emmeline, Draco knew her voice well enough now as well. She seemed to be brushing Lupin off, like she thought he was being silly. "I'll be an hour tops, just like always."

"Still, they're getting stronger and more organised," Lupin pressed, "I wouldn't be surprised if Voldemort's got watchers all over the city."

"Well, they haven't gotten me yet," Emmeline said lightly.

That flippant remark had a surprising effect on Draco. It was like it had hooked a memory from the recesses of his brain and reeled it in, making it slap and flap around in his mind's eye like a suffocating fish.

It had been his first night back at home after school had finished for the year – tomorrow night, he realised with a jolt. He'd arrived to find the Dark Lord had moved in, made himself quite at home. After dinner, Rowle and Rodolphus had been publically congratulated by the Dark Lord. He'd stood them up in front of the Death Eaters gathered in the Manor's reception room and applauded them, the clapping of his hands echoing off the walls and high ceiling. No one else had clapped. Everyone had been too afraid.

Rowle and Rodolphus had killed a woman from the Order. She'd walked the same route at the same time every evening, and after tracking her movements for a week, they'd pounced on a Friday night, killing her and leaving her maimed body in the street for the muggles to find. The Dark Lord had been impressed, she'd been one of the Order's best fighters.

It was Emmeline, Draco was sure of it. It had to be. And it was Friday today. Rowle and Rodolphus would be waiting for her.

"Too stubborn for your own good, Vance," Lupin chuckled. The amused sound was very at odds with the turbulent emotions rocketing through Draco at that moment.

Abruptly he heard them part ways, one set of footsteps going back up the stairs, one heading down.

Draco sat frozen on his bed in the dark, Regulus's diary still in his hands, his heart beating loudly in his ears. It was the sort of thing he dreaded – could he really sit here and let her go off to her death? The only person in the house who treated him kindly, who always had a smile for him?

No, as it turned out.

He was off his bed and across the room without even making a conscious decision. Rushing quickly down the staircase, he caught up with Emmeline when she was nearly at the front door. Draco stopped abruptly on the bottom stair, pinned in place as she turned to see who had hurried after her. She wore muggle clothes as usual, jeans and big sweatshirt, her dark hair its normal spiky self. She hardly looked like she was off anywhere important.

"Where are you going?" he asked, slightly out of breath. He tried to look casual by leaning on the banister, but realised that he really had no idea how to warn her without saying, ' _I'm from the future, you're going to die tonight.'_

She gave him a funny look but just sounded surprised as she asked, "what's it to you?"

Draco shrugged; he wasn't sure how to proceed. Perhaps he'd changed events enough that she wasn't leaving to do whatever it was she'd done every evening last time? The household would have still been mourning Black's death, after all, but she had said to Lupin, ' _I'll only be an hour tops, just like always.'_

Emmeline still looked curious as she answered his question. "I'm going to meet my mum. She's just moved back to London, got a new job working for some posh family in Westminster."

"Oh," Draco said, "that's good." He was completely stumped; how did he tell her not to go? Black knew the truth about him, had known since yesterday morning. Draco thought he would have told the other adults about it by now. Maybe she knew and would take him at his word?

Emmeline nodded in agreement. "She's dead pleased, says it's much more prestigious than her last position. Keeps banging on about how it's just around the corner from the Prime Minister's house." She smiled, clearly trying to make Draco feel at ease, just like she always did. "I meet her there every evening, since it's too dangerous for her to be walking to the tube alone at night."

That sounded like the pattern the Death Eaters had observed. There was nothing for it, he'd just have to say it.

"They're watching you."

"Excuse me?" Emmeline asked, the smile falling from her lips.

"The Death Eaters," Draco sighed, resigned to the fact that he was useless at keeping anything to himself. "They're watching you."

"They're watching all of us, Draco," she replied gently.

Draco shook his head, "No, they know you'll be there tonight, they will be waiting."

"And how do _you_ know?" Emmeline's eyes narrowed.

 _Had Black really not told her?_ That truly surprised Draco. _Apparently I'm the only one who can't keep my mouth shut,_ he thought. "Because you'll get killed. Don't go tonight."

"Sirius was telling the truth?" she whispered. All suspicion gone from her face, she took a step closer to him.

So he _had_ told her. "Yes." Draco confirmed. His thoughts were going in circles, it was driving him mad.

"But he said you refused to help us." Emmeline was still whispering, like they were going to be overheard even though everyone else was in bed.

"Fine, go and get murdered, then," Draco huffed. He actually felt a little bit sick, just like when he'd spoken to Dumbledore earlier. Clearly the stress of his constant toing and froing on the subject of helping was really starting to get to him. He should have just stayed in his room.

"Sorry," Emmeline said, "I'm just surprised you would change your mind."

 _If only she knew,_ Draco thought. "I haven't," he said shortly. But then he looked at her again, and the expression she wore was so genuinely concerned, so obviously worried about him, that he mumbled, "but you've been, well, nice to me… warning you seems like the right thing to do."

Emmeline smiled at him. Draco felt nothing but horrible embarrassment.

"Thank you," she said, "I'll go a different way tonight." She patted his shoulder and Draco twitched away from the touch. "Sorry," she said again, sounding more amused than repentant. "See you tomorrow."

"Goodnight," Draco murmured, turning away before she even reached the front door, wanting to get away from the whole scene. He climbed the stairs quickly, only looking back when he heard the door close. He hoped she would see him tomorrow. He might only have two weeks left in this place, but he would certainly miss Emmeline's friendly face if she did not return.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, the slight sickness he'd felt while talking to Emmeline had intensified dramatically. His head was spinning so badly, he felt like the floor of the landing was shifting under his feet. He stopped, putting a hand out to the banister to steady himself, almost feeling like he was going to throw up. Stomach flu couldn't hit this quickly, could it?

"Malfoy?" Draco opened eyes that he hadn't even been aware of closing to see Granger standing in the doorway of the bathroom. She wore white and blue checked flannel pajamas and was holding a toothbrush in her hand. "Are you alright?" she asked, rather solicitously.

"Fine, thank you," Draco said through his teeth. The nausea seemed to be passing now. How strange.

"What did Dumbledore have to say earlier?" Granger asked. It was weird, Draco thought, how there was none of the usual suspicion or derision lurking behind the question.

"None of your business," he replied, still confused by his sudden bout of illness and wanting to get back to his room, away from this unsettlingly curious Hermione Granger.

"Harry asked him why you were here, just like you told us to," Granger continued, still not biting at Draco's grouchiness.

Of course he had. Granger might be perplexingly polite, but her interfering nature would never change, and neither would Potter's drive to prove that Draco was up to something.

"And what did he tell him?" Draco forced himself to ask, worried for a moment that Granger knew the truth and would start bombarding him with questions. That was quite a daunting prospect.

Granger frowned, looking a bit put out. "That it was up to you to tell us if you wanted to, and that we weren't to share it with anyone else if you did."

"Well, I don't want to," Draco said shortly, starting up the stairs once more. "Good night, Granger."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Granger asked, and even with the non-confrontational tone she had been taking, it was a shock for Draco to hear such a guileless inquiry from a girl who'd made no secret of her dislike of him. It made him feel ill in a whole different way.

"Perfectly," Draco spat, fury and confusion fighting inside him. It was just as he'd feared. It had only been four days and already not only Vance, but Granger too, surprisingly, seemed to be legitimately interested in his wellbeing.

As he continued up the stairs, he resolved to have as little contact as possible with the rest of the household for the next two weeks. He really didn't want the feeling to become mutual, _especially_ not in Granger's case.

* * *

 _A/N: Interestingly, this version gets about four times the visitors that the Drarry version does, (about 2000 hits per update) and yet it has less reviews, just wondering if there is a reason for that?_

 _Thanks for reading! xx_


	17. Regulus's Journal: Part Three

_**A/N:**_ _This is the last part of Regulus's journal, Beta'd by_ _ **SableUnstable,**_ _who is an angst-wading trooper where my work is concerned this week!_

 _Also, personally I don't like to give warnings for content because I feel like it gives away the plot, but this chapter contains some pretty heavy stuff._

 _ **Trigger warnings:**_ _Major Character Death, implied sexual violence, and suicide._

* * *

 _ **Regulus's Journal, Part Three**_

* * *

 _ **New Year's Day**_

The party was smashing. Seriously. Mother pulled herself together (and managed to return her skin to its normal colour), the food was excellent, the guests were all in very high spirits, it was a marvelous evening.

My parents met Vera's, which was honestly far more nerve wracking than I expected. I think Ebbs may be right about my obsession with her… or maybe this is just what love feels like; a desperate urge not to be embarrassed by one's socially inept father and tenuously sane mother? Merlin. Sometimes I think I'm losing it a bit. Perhaps it's hereditary…

The real highlight of the evening for me wasn't anything to do with the party, however. It was the blissful half hour I spent with Vera on the couch in the library. She really is such a surprise. I'm sure it would've progressed to something more than wandering hands if my supposed best friend hadn't declared himself bored of the old people and forced his company upon us for the rest of the night. But I'm not that annoyed with him, he was the one who figured out the spell to get into the drinks cabinet. I wonder if my father will notice that most of his whiskey has mysteriously disappeared?

* * *

 _ **Hogwarts**_

Do you know what I would like?

Not to be surrounded by idiots.

Is that really too much to ask?

We've been back a school for a week, the teachers are piling on the homework (" _N. 's are approaching, you must be prepared!"_ ), I've Quidditch training a thousand times a week in the freezing January evening air, and on top of all that, some complete _arse_ decides that now is the time to start picking fights with purebloods.

Because of this I have been given a detention. A DETENTION. I've never received one in my whole school career, and now, because some jumped up mudblood twat decided that I'm an elitist bigot and jinxed me, I have to waste two hours of my precious, already stretched time. I barely even retaliated, and his hair will grow back eventually. It's not like I actually _hurt_ him. He, the sod, caused me considerable pain, giving me great itching welts all over my face. But apparently, because I was cured within minutes thanks to the school matron, and he must wait for nature to run its course, I'm the villain.

- _side note,_ I thank my brother for that hair loss hex. I'm not sure how he altered it from a normal hex, but by adding the prefix _mansurus,_ the hair can not be regrown with magic. Very funny when it happens to someone else. Not funny when I spent the summer between second and third year looking like I'd joined the muggle army. This thought makes me glad Dumbledore's attack plan does not include annoying the Dark Lord into surrender – if it did, Sirius and his practical joke-focused friends would surely lead the Order of the Phoenix to victory with a round of well-placed leg-jigging, arse-itching, musical-belching specialty hexes in a matter of days.

* * *

It seems that the political climate has finally infected the halls of Hogwarts.

I really don't understand why my fellow students are so keen to get involved. Can't they see that this is our last chance of proper freedom? Well, until the Dark Lord wins, at any rate. Outside the school, witches and wizards are fighting and dying, on both sides. It boggles the mind to think that so many here want to begin that unpleasantness early.

I have been approached by Corban Yaxley, a sixth year who has amassed a rather impressive group of sympathizers, despite being younger than half of them. He has Death Eater written all over him. His father and uncles are all quite notorious supporters of the Dark Lord. He's asked Ebbs to join their little club, too, and I really don't know what the best move is. Obviously there's safety in numbers, and with the Gryffindors railing around Dumbledore's pennant, protection from them seems prudent. Even if I've never declared loyalty to the Dark Lord, thanks to Charlotte Vain and her vicious gossip, I'm branded a Death Eater whether I want to be or not.

* * *

 _ **February**_

Thank Merlin for Quidditch.

Our team is top notch this year. I think I pulled off my best catch to date at the match today. Poor Matthew MacKinnon (he's Hufflepuff's Seeker). I don't think he'll be helping me fend off the girls at dinner any more, not after the way I beat him today. He was no match for me. The Snitch was exceptionally quick as well, lead us in quite a chase. But I eventually caught it after a daring dive only feet above the crowd. It happened to be the Hufflepuff stand, too; it was very nice to rub it in their faces a bit with all the blood feuding that's going on.

Of course, there was the inevitable post-match party in the common room, and a drink and a laugh really did make all the other drama seem a little less overwhelming.

* * *

I find myself at a loose end this evening. My homework is up to date, and it's raining so heavily that even Peterson won't send us out to practice. Yaxley's little club seems to be taking off – Vera has been sitting with them at lunch rather than me. She's not gone off me… I don't think so anyway, but with her family it's really no surprise that she wants to be involved with whatever Yaxley is up to.

That's not where she is tonight, however. I've just returned from walking her down to the school gates (and here I was thinking I might avoid the weather tonight). Vera got a letter from home today, asking her to come home for the weekend. Her brother Ian was waiting for her at the end of the school drive and she seemed a bit nervous. I'm sure I'm making something out of nothing, but it was quite strange. Students rarely go home during term time. She wouldn't even tell me why she was going.

* * *

Something is definitely strange about Vera's trip home last weekend. She all but shouted at me to mind my own business when I asked her about it on her return. Not only that, but she is now refusing to be alone with me. I'm quite concerned that her father (or more likely, Ian) has told her not to socialise with me any longer. It really is so perplexing.

I've had to resort to sitting with Yaxley's mates at lunch just to be able to talk to her. This in itself has been quite an eye-opener. They certainly aren't hiding their allegiances; they talk constantly of the dangers mudbloods pose to wizarding identity. Yaxley is a rather gifted speaker, very clever at presenting his motives to murder muggleborns and take power from the muggles in a way that sounds almost reasonable. He's always using words like 'subdue' and 'control' as opposed to what he really means; eradicate and rule.

Ebbs, too, has joined me in eating with them, although he seems unconvinced by their arguments. He said to me yesterday that we should just weather the storm. There are only four months left of school now, we just have to get through them and then we will be free to make our own choices.

On a brighter note, Ebbs and I have begun planning our grand tour. It's something of an old tradition. We will take six months directly after leaving school to travel, seeing the world before we begin our adult lives. Ebbs is keen to get as far away as possible; he's been talking about visiting the ancient wizarding sights at Machu Picchu, high in the Andes. It does sound fascinating, I have to admit. My late uncle always raved about the hospitality of the locals in South America. Their magical population lives completely separate to the muggles, hidden away in the mountains, living the same way they have for a thousand years. I hope that I can convince my parents that it's not too intrepid. They are quite concerned that I'll get eaten by an Amaru or something and they will be heirless.

* * *

 _ **March**_

I have managed to be given another detention. At least this time Slughorn is prosiding, so I am able to fill the time productively with a task of my own choice – unlike last time, when Flitwick had us mending holes in the cushions he uses to teach banishing charms. That was such a waste of my time.

I have to concede that this detention was somewhat deserved. Although I still stand by my actions.

It started with Vera, as everything in my life seems to these days. She visited home again this month, and there was absolutely no question that she was hesitant to go. She allowed me to walk her down to the gate like last time, but instead of appearing nervous like her first trip, this time she was downright miserable. There were tears in her eyes as she hugged me goodbye. I was at a complete loss.

I tried to ask Ian, who was there to collect her again, what was going on, but he just gave me the most distasteful look and said, " _Vera is doing her duty, something a fence-sitter like you wouldn't understand."_

And he was right, I don't understand. To see Vera, who is normally rather sharped-tongued and refuses to do anything she doesn't want to, standing there with her head hung, completely silent and allowing herself to be taken somewhere that makes her unhappy, is very confusing.

Not to mention heartbreaking.

I tried to stop her going, and that was how I got myself a detention. I should have known better than to start a duel with Ian, but I will confess myself irrational when it comes to her. Hagrid, the gamekeeper, saw the lights from our fight from his hut, and lumbered down the drive to break it up. Of course, everyone knows the gamekeeper is loyal to Dumbledore, so when he caught me (Slytherin/budding Death Eater/un-estranged Black, take your pick) mid-jinx with an ex-student, he dragged me back up to the castle to be disciplined.

* * *

Another week has gone by since I wrote of my fight with Ian and my concern about Vera, and yet both still occupy my thoughts constantly.

I keep dwelling on the way Ian looked almost amused when I drew my wand on him. He wasn't amused for long – you don't grow up in a house like mine without learning how to duel properly. But what keeps making me think in circles is how eager Ian was to fight me. Surely he could have just turned up his nose and dragged Vera into apparition. But he didn't.

There is a bittersweet silver lining, however. Vera was most definitely on my side. I can still hear her cry of, " _no, Ian, don't!"_ So even if she still will not tell me why she is going home, or why she really doesn't want to, at least she still cares.

Good grief, I'm such a sap when it comes to her.

* * *

The fighting amongst the students escalated to breaking point this week. Yaxley's crew are at the heart of it, and in the most trouble, even though they didn't actually start it for once.

On Saturday just gone, a group of Gryffindors thought it would be clever to ambush Yaxley and his lot while they sat in one of the more sheltered courtyards that afternoon. (Thankfully I was not with them this time, because I was at Quidditch practice.)

The Gryffindors hauled several barrels of discarded frog intestines from the potions room up onto the castle roof, and tipped them, in all their slimy horror, all over the group that sat below, listening to Yaxley speak.

The retaliation was extreme. Many of Yaxley's crew resorted to curses, and Mulciber has been expelled for the use of a disfiguring curse on Amy Winter. His cruel temperament must run in the family, because his older brother was expelled for violence against mudbloods when I was in my fourth year. I'm sure the Dark Lord has welcomed them both into the fold with open arms by now.

Hogwarts is becoming increasingly uncomfortable to live in; I feel like I'm on my guard at all time outside of the Slytherin dungeons. I'm looking forward to Easter an indecent amount. I really need a break from this place.

* * *

 _ **Easter holidays**_

I fear I have made a grave mistake. Possibly the most foolish thing I have ever done. I feel like I shouldn't even write it down in case somebody finds this journal. There will be no hope for me then. But in reality, I don't think there is actually much hope for me anyway. Not after what I did tonight.

Once again it starts with Vera. She has been so distant since my fight with Ian that I thought she'd given up on me. I didn't even write about it, because I was too frightened to admit it in case it was true. But it turns out she hadn't. On the train home from school she repeated the offer her parents had given me at Christmas, for me to visit during the Easter holidays. She said they would be glad to have me for a few days, so that they could get to know me properly. It seems ridiculous, how happy I was for the rest of the journey home, when I think about what's happened since I arrived at the Selwyn's.

The Dark Lord happened. That about sums it up.

And now, because I was too scared to say no, I'm one of them. I honestly feel quite sick. Of course, I want his regime to succeed, but to have to be one of his army? That wasn't something I ever wanted. But it is not my painful new tattoo that has me so upset and worried for my life; no, it's the events that led to to me being Marked that have left me shaken and horrified.

My poor Vera. I now know why she did not want to return home for those visits during the term. And I was right to be paranoid about the way the Dark Lord looked at her during my dinner here at Christmas. It sickens me now to imagine what she must have been through.

The Dark Lord talks constantly of creating new, pure wizards. He insists that it is every young pureblood's duty to have as many children as possible. This all seemed quite logical when he spoke of it over dinner – the building of our new society will obviously require a greater population. But I lost all sympathy with the idea when I saw him taking Vera into his sleeping quarters earlier this evening.

Now, dueling Ian to stop him taking her away is one thing, but to try to intervene with the Dark Lord? That would take a bravery and foolishness that I do not possess. I debated it, I even drew my wand, but I discovered how cowardly I really am tonight. I could not bring myself to to enter that room, to try and stop him. instead, I sat in the hallway outside and waited for her to come out.

I'm so ashamed.

Vera flung herself on me the moment she exited, like she thought I could protect her from him. Silly girl. I must be such a disappointment to her. The Dark Lord was not bothered by my presence. He said that I should be following his example, that my pureblood seed needed to be spread as widely as possible.

It was sick. He is sick. And I am weak.

I told him I agreed in fundamentals, but that tradition was more important, and that I would never consider procreating with someone who wasn't my wife. And then, foolishly, I added, as Vera cried on my shoulder, that no one should be forcing witches to bear children. Not even him.

That was when his attitude toward me changed. Gone was the courteous contemplative leader I had met at dinner. He was replaced by the cruel man I knew must have been underneath. He said bluntly that it was time for me to declare my loyalty to him. He then became even more threatening, and there was no way for me to misunderstand what he was implying.

He said that if I didn't join him officially, Vera will have lost not only her virtue, but her boyfriend as well.

So I did it. I chose a life I didn't want over death. Because I was scared.

* * *

 _ **Home again**_

There are only five days left of holidays now. I'm dreading returning to school, Yaxley and his lot will have heard that I have joined; I shudder to think how they will react. Praise and envy no doubt. But I have done nothing to be proud of, and no one should envy my position. Entering the service of a dangerous wizard who doesn't trust me is a death sentence. And I'm quite sure he does not trust me. He knows I've only joined to prevent him killing me, and he will not forget that I was willing to voice my discontent with his actions. And for as long as he rules by fear, recruits with opinions will always be seen as a danger and a threat among the forced-to-conform ranks.

* * *

Cousin Bella visited today. She came to congratulate me. I think Mother was actually worried when she found out what I had done. She is quite astute; she knows that being a Death Eater is a dangerous position. Bella raved on for at least an hour, vaunting the cause and saying how proud she was to have another Black to stand along side her when the mudbloods fell. When we finally get to lead wizardkind into the new great era.

Father was at his sycophantic best. Sometimes I think he rather fancies Bellatrix. He seems to hang on every word she says. I suppose she actually is less related to him that he is to his wife. Still, he really needs to learn how to behave. Mother looked like she wanted to hex him.

* * *

My return to school is starting to look brighter, if only by comparison to my life at home. I attended my first meeting tonight. It was just as horrid as I expected it to be. The Dark Lord went around the table, talking of each member's success or failure since the last meeting. His discipline for those that had failed in a task he had set was swift: a few cutting insults to their family line, a threat or two to their life (or their children's lives), then Cruciatus, so their screams taught the rest of us the danger of failing the Dark Lord.

I was not even mentioned. It wasn't until the end of the meeting that the Dark Lord spoke to me. Everyone was leaving and he singled me out, calling me back from my attempted escape.

His request was a strange one, but thankfully something I can manage reasonably easily. He told me he requires an elf, a house-elf. Not forever, but for a single task he wishes to carry out.

Our family's elf is very loyal to me; he will do as I ask without question. So, when I returned home, I told Kreacher to go to the Dark Lord, complete the job he asks him to do, and then come back.

I also told Kreacher that it was an honor to be asked to help the Dark Lord, because I'm certain the Dark Lord will ask him what I have said about the regime at home. Hopefully this will cover any probing questions.

* * *

 _ **4th of April 1979**_

I've recorded the date above because today is a day that needs to be marked. Needs to be observed and remembered.

For the rest of my life, the 4th of April will be black – the anniversary of the day Vera Selwyn left this world forever.

I received a note from her early this morning, and I should have known what it meant at once. But being the self-involved prat that I am, I didn't see it for what it really was: a suicide note. A final goodbye.

 _Dearest Regulus,_

 _This is not your fault in any way._

 _I wish I were stronger but I am not. I can not handle this anymore, I am ruined in the most permanent way possible. It is unbearable. Vile. It breaks my heart to leave you but I can not see another way out._

 _I will love you forever._

 _Yours,_

 _Vera._

I thought she was breaking up with me. I'm such a fool.

I flooed her house to try and speak with her, to try and convince her to change her mind, but her red-eyed and shaking mother told me it was impossible. Her daughter had taken a lethal dose of Dreamless Sleep and had been pronounced dead that morning.

If only the owl had flown faster. If only I'd gotten the message in time – I would have flooed at once. They might have found her before it was too late.

Mother is so worried about me, I can hear her pacing on the landing outside my room. It's the first time in awhile that I've felt like she actually cares about me and not just the family line. She hasn't even mentioned her disappointment that Vera is now unavailable for marriage at all, a rather big deal where she is concerned. She even brought me tea, since Kreacher is away.

I feel as though… honestly, I can't even explain it.

* * *

I feel broken. That's how I feel. Like every bone in my body has been snapped; like my muscles have been stretched beyond repair; like my brain and heart are both poisoned, infected with the knowledge that 24 hours ago Vera lived, and now she doesn't.

I feel guilt, but it is nowhere near the hate that fills me. The fury at the Dark Lord, for it is clearly his treatment of her that she was referring to in her letter.

And Ian, him I hate just as much, how could he stand there at the school gate, knowing what he was taking Vera to? " _Doing her duty,"_ he'd called it.

I hate him. I hate them.

I will find a way to make them regret. Make them feel the soul-crushing misery that threatens to engulf me every few minutes.

* * *

I'm not even sure why I'm writing this in here, but it has become such a habit when I am feeling stressed, and I am most certainly stressed now.

Kreacher has returned from his sojourn with the Dark Lord, and the story he told me is more than distressing.

The Dark Lord severely underestimated the strength of an elf's bond to his master's word. He expected Kreacher to die with the secrets he told him, but my loyal little elf refused. He has come home bearing a piece of information that could be the Dark Lord's undoing.

I have little time to plan, I'm meant to be getting on the train back to school tomorrow morning. I will not make it. I've found a locket in Mother's jewelry box that should do the trick, so I will go to Diagon Alley first thing to collect what I need from Timworth's Tinctures (the owner is a friend of Narcissa's, he will have no problem helping me at short notice). I'll go straight to the Selwyn's from there. Then Kreacher will help me with the final stage.

Ian Selwyn and The Dark Lord are going to regret taking Vera from me.

R.A.B.


	18. Chapter Fifteen: Potter Again

_**A/N:** Once again, thanks so much for all the comments and follows, you are all keeping me so motivated to maintain my weekly updating schedule. _

_Also, **SableUnstable** , brilliant beta work on this! And bonus points to any rugby fans out there who get my little joke (though I don't know that HP fanfiction and rugby go together very well!)_

 _Happy Reading,_

 _Mrs J xx_

* * *

 _ **Chapter Fifteen** : Potter Again_

* * *

Draco's resolve to avoid contact with the rest of the residents in Grimmauld Place was wavering by the time the next evening rolled around. He'd finished reading Regulus's journal in the wee hours of the night, and the content had been so upsetting that he was craving a distraction from it.

The way Regulus had felt, his terror and the fatalistic thoughts he described after he'd been forced into taking the Mark, were all too familiar for Draco. He, himself, had been excited at the moment he'd declared his loyalty to the Dark Lord. But the regret and fear Regulus had expressed had infused every second of every day for Draco during his sixth year, when nothing had seemed to work; when he realised that failing was much more likely than success when it came to that blasted vanishing cabinet.

It really didn't help that every time Draco tried to direct his thoughts away from his own miserable past, forcing himself not to think about the tragedy of Vera Selwyn's short life, he became aware of a niggling worry boring away in the back of his mind: his anxious need to know how Emmeline had fared the night before. The desire annoyed him greatly. He _knew_ it was stupid to start caring about these people, but he didn't seem to be able to prevent it.

He was sitting on his bed staring into space, his carefully focused thoughts on the only light spot he could find; the intriguing revelation that his mother had been friends with someone called Timworth, a coincidence that was quite hard to ignore. He'd just decided that he would ask his mother the moment she arrived who this Timworth she had known was, and if he had a fondness for board games, when an interruption in the form of Kreacher appeared. He had come to collect Draco from his bedroom to join the rest of the household for the evening meal.

"You are still reading Master Regulus's journal?" the elf asked as he watched Draco tuck it safely away under his pillow. The horror of Vera's suicide and the things that the Dark Lord had done to her had haunted Draco for most of the night. What had Regulus done to gain his revenge? Those last entries had been confusing. He wondered if he dared ask Kreacher about it? Surely the elf could enlighten him, or at least tell him what task the Dark Lord had needed help with.

"Yes," Draco said, because even though he had finished, he was not quite ready to give it up just yet. "He had quite-" he paused, not sure how to finish the sentence, "-um, an eventful year."

"It was his last." Kreacher nodded sadly. Then, as if catching himself, he wrung his long-fingered hands together, his ears giving a nervous twitch as he said, "please, Mr Malfoy, you must keep it secret from Master Sirius."

"I have no intention of sharing that book with anyone," Draco assured him. "No one talks to me, anyway."

"Yes, thank you, sir." The little elf did not seem reassured however, still twisting his fingers and looking jumpy. "And Kreacher can have it back soon?"

"As soon as I am finished with it, I will bring it to you. I promise," Draco said sincerely. He didn't really know why he wasn't ready to give it up, but there just seemed to be more to the story than what he'd been able to figure out so far.

Kreacher nodded his thanks, and led Draco from the room.

The smell of Mrs Weasley's cooking filled the old house, and whatever Draco thought of her, he could find no fault in her culinary skills. He thought it was quite amazing that none of the Weasley children were obese; Draco found himself eating seconds and sometimes even thirds at nearly every meal. Two more weeks of that and it wouldn't matter that his trunk had been returned to him, because his middle would be bursting out of everything he owned.

Thankfully not yet, though. He was very pleased to be dressed in something other than his uniform or Sirius's hand-me-down training gear. He'd been delighted to discover his favorite Montrose Magpies shirt folded neatly in his trunk, a shirt his father had bought him at a match they attended together in the season preceding Draco's fifth year. It had been one of the many items he'd lost when he and his parents had fled Hogwarts after the Dark Lord had been killed.

Both Granger and Potter did a doubletake as he entered the kitchen, obviously surprised to see him dressed differently than they were used to. "Dressing down this evening, Malfoy?" Potter teased from where he sat at the end of the table, half-hidden by a towering stack of dinner plates he was wiping with a teatowel. "Here I was thinking you just really loved your uniform."

"When in Rome," Draco returned in kind, and Potter rolled his eyes and disappeared behind the plates once more, yet again nowhere near as snide or nasty as Draco was used to.

"You'd never catch me in Magpies gear," he said as he moved the pile of dishes to one side. He looked quite offended. "They're a privileged bunch of twats."

"Good looking, though," said a voice that made Draco whip his head in its direction: Emmeline stood just inside the entrance to the kitchen, her hands being filled with condiment bottles and jars by Molly Weasley. A surge of relief he had not been expecting swelled through his chest, making him want to grin – and scowl – at the same time.

"Evening, Draco," she said, a little smile lifting her lips. It was then that he noticed a nasty graze on her cheek. Had the Death Eaters found her despite her promise to be careful?

"Who's good looking?" Black asked, appearing as well, carrying a large bottle of pumpkin juice and a stack of glasses.

"The Montrose Quidditch team," Lupin put in from where he sat at the table. He and Granger had a book open between them; she was probably suffering from teacher withdrawals, Draco thought.

Sirius scrunched his nose in apparent distaste. "Bit pretty, aren't they?"

"I don't know whether to be offended by that or not," Lupin muttered, barely looking up from the book.

Harry and Emmeline both laughed, but Granger's shrewd eyes flicked between Black and Lupin. Draco could tell she was very close to figuring out their little secret.

After depositing her armload of sauces and dressings, Emmeline took a seat and caught Draco's eye, giving the chair next to hers a significant look. Draco slid into it, half expecting to be called up for food ferrying duty, but no one said anything.

"Thank you," Emmeline said quietly to him while the others continued to debate the aesthetic appeal of various Quidditch teams. "I would have been done for if you hadn't warned me last night."

"No problem," Draco said. Whatever concerns he might have about becoming attached to people in the house, the fact remained that he had actually saved this woman's life. He supposed that was something to feel proud of. His eyes caught the grazes on her face again; they looked worse close up. "What happened to your cheek?"

She raised her fingers to the cuts. "Something one of them hit me with. It was definitely a close call. I'm really grateful, I know you don't want to be involved in all this."

"Bit late now," Draco mumbled. "Don't seem to be able to help myself lately."

"Well, you might be sad about that, but I'm not," Emmeline said brightly. "We need all the help we can get."

Sirius's loud voice suddenly called down the table, saving Draco from having to reply. "Vance has the deciding vote! Tornadoes' Keeper, Carter, or Wanderers' Beater, McCaw?"

The others were obviously still talking about good looking Quidditch teams, although they seemed to have progressed to individual players now. Emmeline considered seriously for a second. "McCaw, hands down," she said. Black seemed pleased with Emmeline's response. He all but poked his tongue out as he snipped, "I told you so," at Remus, Harry, and Hermione.

"If anyone wants to eat before midnight, I'll need some help in here." Mrs Weasley was standing in the doorway to the kitchen work area with her hands on her hips. "And I'm sorry, Emmeline dear, but Carter has it by a mile, I'm afraid." Remus and Hermione both looked smug. "Now, kids, veggies need to go to the table, and Remus, there's a rather heavy platter with the pies on it, if you wouldn't mind."

Assuming he was a part of the 'kids,' Draco stood from the table and followed Granger and Potter into the kitchen, earning him a surprised side-eye from Potter and an annoyingly knowing smirk from Granger. He was definitely coming to regret their conversation in the library, but she couldn't fault him; following Mrs Weasley's orders definitely made his life easier, whether surrounded by people that hated him or not.

* * *

It was quite a lot later when there was a little tapping knock on his bedroom door. Draco was wide awake, however, still re-reading those last entries in Regulus's diary. Disturbing as they were, he was determined to make sense of them. _"I've found a locket in Mother's jewelry box that should do the trick."_ But what trick was he talking about? _"I've found a locket in Mother's jewelry box that should do the trick."_ But what trick was he talking about?

"Yes," Draco replied cautiously.

The door opened a crack and Granger stood there, still in her day clothes, looking rather self-conscious. That got Draco's attention because he didn't think he'd ever seen Granger look less than completely sure of herself. What could she possibly want from him?

"Harry has gone back to his Aunt and Uncle's now that term is over," she said, as though Potter's movements were something Draco liked to keep tabs on. Draco was sort of disappointed. That was it? Potter had gone to the muggles? Dull. He'd already known Potter was leaving, they'd been talking about it at dinner. But then Draco had not been involved in the conversation; he'd been occupied filling his belly with chicken and ham pie. He still didn't see why Granger felt the need to make a special point of informing him about it now, however.

"How pleasant for him," Draco replied, looking back down at the diary, hoping Granger would leave again.

"Not really," she contradicted him, "but Dumbledore insisted, and I just wanted to let you know that Ron and Ginny will be arriving tomorrow afternoon." Granger continued, resolutely staying put. "They're already at the Burrow."

"How unpleasant for me," Draco sighed, his gaze returning to his visitor. She seemed a bit on edge, her eyes flicking about the room, like she was checking for hidden booby traps.

"Probably," she nodded in agreement, now scrutinizing the wardrobe. "They don't know you're here. I thought I should-" she broke off, glancing at Draco properly and appearing more suspicious than ever.

"Put me on my guard?" Draco supplied.

"Something like that," Granger agreed.

"Consider me guarded," Draco assured her. "I will be on alert for marauding gingers."

Granger gave a delicate little snort of amusement and fiddled with a button on her cardigan before she looked around the room again, making no attempt to leave. Draco merely stared at her, waiting for her to realise that she'd come to talk to her enemy. She'd done the noble thing and warned him about the Weasleys, and was now free to go. But she didn't. Instead, she brushed down her cardigan, straightened up and asked, "what do you do in here all day? You only come out for food and Vance's ridiculous training."

Remembering the last time he'd had to get Granger and Potter to leave him alone, Draco opted for sarcasm. "I'm writing secret letters to all my Death Eater buddies and practicing dark magic."

"I'm sure," Granger said, with half a smile, like she was waiting for the real answer. Draco really didn't know what to do, so he told her the truth.

"I read mostly."

"Oh, really?" she asked, tone interested. "What are you reading?"

Draco was beginning to wonder if Granger was just trying to annoy him. He scowled and said huffily, "why do you care?"

"I like books," Granger shrugged, her eyebrows going up at Draco's abrupt belligerence. "I just thought you might be bored, that's all."

Was _Granger_ bored? Is that was she was inflicting her company on him completely out of the blue? "No," he said shortly, "I'm quite entertained."

Unfortunately, even his obvious hostility wasn't enough to get Granger to go away, "So what's it about?" she asked, nodding to Regulus's journal that was still sitting open in Draco's lap. "I don't recognize it. Is it from the library here?"

"None of your business," Draco replied sharply, closing the book with a snap.

Suddenly Granger's wand was out, the movement so quick, Draco thought she must have had it hidden up her sleeve. Oddly this actually made Draco feel a bit less annoyed – at least Granger still felt the need to arm herself in his presence.

"Accio book," she said in the same moment that her wand appeared. It was so fast that Draco could not prevent it as Regulus's diary slipped out of his hands and zoomed to Granger's waiting ones.

"Granger!" Draco said angrily, shocked that she would resort to such a trick. "I must insist!" He leapt from the bed, his promise to Kreacher at the front of his mind. Granger seeing it was almost as bad as Black – she would tell Potter, and he would tell Black.

In the short moment it had taken for Draco to cross the room, Granger had flipped open the cover, and desperate to stop her reading the name written there, Draco snatched the book roughly from her hands – he didn't want to use magic, he could just imagine her dobing him in for that, even if she had just done the same.

"Excuse me!" Granger said indignantly, advancing a step towards him. "That was completely unnecessary!"

Draco gave a scornful laugh. "Was it? You're no better, summoning charm outside of school? I should report you," he threatened. "It's my book, and I'm not willing to share."

"You mean Regulus's book," Granger said slyly as she crossed her arms and fixed him with that expression of hers he was becoming so familiar with. Like she was sizing him up, perhaps deciding whether or not to just stun him and take the book back for herself. "Why have you got Sirius's little brother's diary?" she asked, focused unrelentingly on Draco's guilty face. "Where did you get it?" She frowned. "That's what you've been reading nonstop for the past three days?"

"Yes," Draco admitted, his annoyance with Granger ratcheting up another notch. "And I found it, I didn't steal it or anything." He gritted his teeth, hating that he sounded like he was justifying his actions when he really had done nothing wrong. Taking a deep breath, he spoke as reasonably as he was able. "Look, Granger, you mustn't tell Black I have it. I promised the elf I would keep it safe. Black will destroy it, like everything else in this house."

"Um," Granger said, apparently stumped by this, her scowl softening. "Okay, firstly, did you just say you don't want to break a promise to Kreacher?" She looked bewildered. " _You_ made a promise to a house-elf?"

"And? A promise is a promise Granger," Draco said grudgingly. Abruptly, an idea struck. Granger would know that Potter was on a path to destroy the Dark Lord now. Surely Potter would have told her what he was muttering about after his conversation with Dumbledore yesterday. Perhaps the tantalizing promise of whatever it was Regulus had learnt would be enough to get Granger to keep quiet. "There is some stuff in here that you might not want destroyed," he began, trying to sound tempting. "Regulus discovered something about the Dark Lord's weakness, surely you'd like to know what it was?"

"Voldemort has a weakness?" Granger repeated skeptically, her whole expression changing. Draco was surprised, he hadn't really expected her to believe him that easily. She must be quite worried for Potter. She still looked cautiously hopeful as she asked, "something better than the indecipherable guff Dumbledore keeps telling Harry, about souls and love? It all sounds like nonsense to me."

 _Souls…_ the word struck a ringing chord in Draco's memory. It was like he was under the influence of some sort of unconscious self-inflicted legimency as bits and pieces of related information swam to the surface of his mind, without any conscious effort: his conversation with Dumbledore about the diadem Potter had been searching for, and that word. _Horcrux_. Then, one startling piece of crystal clear memory – Potter standing in the Great Hall during the final battle, Voldemort leering as Potter spoke of Voldemort's impending destruction... _"there are no more horcruxes, it's over."_

 _Horcruxes._ More than one.

Draco only knew about the process of soul splitting because the library at Malfoy Manor had contained books Lucius proudly said were illegal. Of course, to a sixteen-year-old, illegal books were highly tempting. The library had become something of a sanctuary when the Dark Lord had been occupying their house; Draco had read every single one of the books his father had collected on the subject of dark magic. Part of him had hoped that he would find something in there to banish the Dark Lord from his home. But this, his knowledge of the pursuit of immortality via horcruxes, might be even more useful in his current position.

"Um," Draco began, his voice a little croaky with the weight of his realisations. "It might be about souls." He spoke carefully, hesitatingly, in case he was wrong. "But certainly not love."

"Show me," Granger said at once, coming closer.

"You can't tell Black," Draco stipulated, retreating slightly, the diary held tightly in his right hand, hidden behind his back.

"I won't," Granger promised. She was quite close now, and the moment was rather too intense for Draco as her large pleading eyes met his. "Please."

Unnerved by the openness in Granger's face, Draco stumbled back a step. "You should read it all," he said brusquely, to cover his reaction. "You might see more in it than I do, if Dumbledore is already telling Potter things about souls." The thought was enough to distract him from feeling awkward, and immediately he began to wonder how much Dumbledore already knew. Was this how Potter had started to look for the horcruxes last time? How did he find them? How could he even know how many he was looking for?

"Okay," Granger agreed easily, her eyes now glued to the diary in her hands. She seemed oblivious to Draco's floundering. "I'll bring it back in the morning."

"No," Draco stopped her, "you'll have to read it here. I can't risk it being seen."

That unexpected condition got Granger's full attention. "I have to stay here?" she sputtered, "in your room?"

"So?" Draco shot back defensively, not liking the implications in her question. "The Weasleys will be here tomorrow, won't you be sharing a room with the girl?"

"Her name is Ginny," Granger said, but she was clearly considering the problem. Draco had a strong urge to look away from her as she gazed in his general direction. He was worried more eye contact would bring back that uneasy feeling he'd had the night before, when she'd spoken to him outside the bathroom – the feeling that was like dread and hopefulness all rolled into one.

Eventually, Granger sighed. "Fine, in here it is." She sat herself on the end of Draco's bed and opened the diary again without another word.

Draco was lost in thought as Granger sat reading quietly. The flick of a page or a snort of amusement at some of Regulus's more humorous observations were the only sounds that came from the end of the bed. Draco ignored the noises, struggling with the monumental idea that Voldemort could be defeated; that the knowledge of horcruxes could actually end the war before the Dark Lord gained control of the Ministry.

If only he knew where they were – or what they were. That must be where Potter had disappeared to while Draco was in seventh year; he'd been searching for them.

Had the Dark Lord known Potter was after them? Draco cast his mind back, wading though his recollections from that horribly dark year, dwelling on all the times he'd been in the Dark Lord's company. Were there any clues? Any moments the Dark Lord had seemed distressed?

There was one that stuck out beyond all the others. It had been right after Granger and the others had escaped from Gringotts. The rumors flying around Hogwarts had been wild; the Carrows had banned any mention of the bank, dragons, and Potter's continuing survival. The Death Eaters had been ordered to assemble within hours of the commotion in Diagon Alley, and Draco had gone, most reluctantly with the Carrows, to his sycophant-infested home.

The Dark Lord's fury had been terrible. A little goblin had been summoned from Gringotts, the creature trembling at the Dark Lord's feet as he'd screeched, _"what else did they take?!"_

The goblin's voice was thin with pain when he'd replied. " _A small golden cup, my lord._ "

The Dark Lord had seemed to snap, erupting in uncontrollable anger before Draco's eyes. The next minutes were a flurry of heart-squeezing panic as his father seized Draco by the collar and dragged him from the room. Away from the Dark Lord's mania; away from the green lights that were shooting through the air with no discretion about who they hit.

Was that one, then? That small golden cup?

Had part of the Dark Lord's soul been hidden at Gringotts?


End file.
